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ALES FROM THE 
DRAMATISTS 

1580 TO 1780 

CHARLES 

.0 VOLUMES IN ONE 

WITH PORTP 



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oyo 



A' A A' /ONSOA' 



T 



ALES FROM THE 
DRAMATISTS 



1580 TO 1780 



BY 

CHARLES MORRIS 



TWO VOLUMES IN ONE 

WITH PORTRAITS 




PHIL ADELP H I A 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1898 

5 ".' » 



3 ■> 



3 3 } > 3 



CoPYRKiHT, 1S92, 

BY 

J. B. LippiNCOTT Company. 



c f • * 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Companv. Philadelphia. 



?R 



PREFACE. 



That charming literary production of Charles 
and Mary Lamb, " Tales from Shakespeare," has 
had the good fortune to survive for nearly a cen- 
tury the modern deluge of books, and still remains 
80 popular with younger readers that it may be 
looked upon as a genuine juvenile classic. The 
stories of the Shakesjjearian comedies and trage- 
dies could not be more attractively rendered, and 
our youthful acquaintance with these delightful 
" Tales" forms a most agreeable introduction to our 
mature studies of the plays themselves. 

In the absence of any work dealing similarly 
with the non-Shakespearian drama, the writer has 
ventured to put into story form some of the best- 
known plays of the leading English dramatists, — 
not with a remote idea of such a happy destiny 
as has fallen to the lot of the work above named, 
but with the more modest hope of affording some 
share of enjoyment to the present generation of 
readers. In doing so, it has been found necessary 
to cull heedfully from an unweeded garden, whose 
healthful plants are associated with many of 
noisome growth. Numerous writers of fame, such 
as Dryden, Congreve, Wychei'ly, and several of 

3 

.439059 



4 PREFACE. 

the prominent Elizabethan dramatists, are too 
licentious or otherwise objectionable in style to 
yield wholesome food for the young mind, or to 
be adapted to the modern standard of taste and 
morals. The elder drama — few of whose plays 
still hold the stage — has, therefore, been sparingly 
dealt with, our selections being in great part con- 
fined to the more popular plays of the leading 
dramatists of the eighteenth and early nineteenth 
centuries. 

This work owes only its suggestion to Lamb's 
" Tales from Shakespcai'e." It makes no effort to 
imitate or approach in style that deservedly pop- 
ular work. It has, indeed, been deemed advisable 
to deal with the drama in a less juvenile manner, 
and thus to appeal to an older circle of readers, 
while still considering the tastes and demands of 
the young. 

It is hoped that the lovers of the living drama 
may find it possible to pass an occasional pleasant 
hour with narrative reproductions of some of the 
plays which they have enjoyed upon the stage, 
and that the aroma of these flowers of the dra- 
matic art may not prove to have been entirely dis- 
sipated by depriving them of their stage setting, 
and putting them in form for enjoyment around 
the evening lamp. 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 



PAGE 

Every Man in his Humor. By Ben Johnson . . 9 

Philaster, or Love Lies Bleeding. By Beau- . 

moni and Fletcher 44 

A New Way to Pay Old Debts. By Phiiip Mas- 
singer 68 

Venice Preserved. By Thomas Otway 99 

The Busybody. By Susanna Centlivre 119 

The Beaux Stratagem. By George Farquhar . . 151 

The Belle's Stratagem. By Hannah Cowley . . 181 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME IL 



The Gamester. By Edward Moore 7 

Douglas By John Home 32 

She Stoops to Conquer. By Oliver Goldsm.ith . . 56 

The Koad to Kuin. By Thomas Holcrqft .... 90 

Wild Oats. By John O'Keefe 121 

The School for Scandal. By Richard Brinsley 

Butler Sheridan 156 

The Rivals, liy Richard Brinsley Butler Sheridan . 185 

1* 5 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



VOLUME I. 

PAGE 

Ben Johnson Frontispiece. 

John Fletcher 44 

Thomas Otway 99 

Susanna Centlivre 119 



VOLUME IL 

Oliver Goldsmith Frontispiece. 

John Home 32 

John O'Keefe 121 

Richard Brinsley Butler Sheridan 185 



TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS 



1580 TO 1780 

¥ 
VOLUME I. 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 

BY BEN JONSON. 



[Op the numerous dramatic authors of the 
Elizabethan era, contemporaries of Shakespeare, 
— including Marlowe, Jonson, Beaumont and 
Fletcher, Webster, Massinger, Ford, and half a 
score of others — very few have left works of suflS- 
cient dramatic merit to survive to our time. With 
the exception of a single play of Massinger's, and 
a very rare production of the best of Jonson's 
and Beaumont and Fletcher's works, all this 
great array of dramas has vanished from that 
stage to which the plays of Shakespeare are 
among the most welcome visitants. This is 
by no means wholly due to lack of dramatic 
strength. The powerful plays of Marlowe are too 
primitive in style, those of Webster too revolting 
in the cruelty of their incidents, for modern repro- 
duction, while the licentiousness which pervades 
some of the best works of other authors unfits 
them for the nineteenth-century taste. We, there- 
fore, confine our selections from the dramatists of 
this era to those whose works have been produced 
within the recent period. 

9 



10 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Ben Jonson, in 83veral respects the ablest of 
Shakespeare's contemporary playwrights, was 
born at WefJtmixister, England, about 1573, was 
educated at Westminster and Cambridge, and en- 
joyed the honor of being one of the most learned 
scholars of his day. His life was a varied one. 
Leaving Cambridge in his sixteenth year, poverty 
made him a bricklayer's apprentice, distaste for 
which occupation soon made him a soldier. On 
his return from the Netherlands, where he had 
seen some service, he joined a company of actors, 
killed one of them in a duel, and narrowly escaped 
being banged. At a later date he was again 
thrown into prison, with his fellow-dramatists. 
Chapman and Marston, on the charge of libel. 
The three were condemned to lose their ears and 
noses, but escaped through Jonson's influence at 
court. He had before this become a favorite dra- 
matist, his first play, " Every Man in his Humor," 
produced in 1598, having given him a high repu- 
tation. In addition to his plays, he wrote, for the 
entertainment of the Court, numerous masques, 
many of which display diversified knowledge, 
sprightly fancy, and fertile invention ; and a large 
number of poems, among which are some of the 
most charming bits of lyric fancy in the English 
language. He was made poet-laureate by James 
I., and was a leading spirit in the literary society 
of that period, being a familiar associate and ap- 
parently a close friend of Shakespeare. He died 
in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 11 

his gravestone bearing the eloquent inscription, 
" O rare Ben Jonson !" 

The plays of Jonson, while full of wit and humor 
and replete with amusing situations, are over- 
weighted with material, and are lacking in nat- 
uralness and interest of plot, and in life-like 
power of characterization. His personages are 
types of character rather than individual men, 
and his plots mainly threads of satirical incident 
for the display of these types. Of his plays, only 
four are highly esteemed, " Every Man in his 
Humor," " The Alchemist," " Volpone, or the Fox," 
and " Bpicoene, or the Silent Woman." These are 
rather compounds of intrigue than stories of con- 
secutive interest. " Eveiy Man in his Humor," 
which we select for treatment, is feeble as a story, 
its principal interest being in its characters, par- 
ticularly that of Captain Bobadil, perhaps the 
most famous example of the boasting coward in 
the literature of the stage.] 

In the sixteenth century there were exacting 
fathers and graceless sons, as there are in the 
nineteenth, and Mr. Knowell, a London gentle- 
man, and his son Edward, were of them. The 
son had been a close student, and was supposed 
still to be so by his father; but, in tfuth, the at- 
tractions of the metropolis had led him into ir- 
regular ways, which he diligently conceale<l from 
his beguiled parent. In these loose habits he 
was aided by his servant Brainworm, a cunning 



12 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

rogue. Young Knowell's companion in his es- 
capades was a gentleman named Wellbred, who, 
like himself, had until recently been of good 
repute, but had fallen into dissolute habits, spend- 
ing his time with wild associates and in revels by 
no means to his credit. 

Visiting at Mr. Knowell's house was a nephew 
of his named Stephen, of country birth and train- 
ing, and such a consummate ass that he was the 
laughing-stock of all who knew him. It was his 
desire to pose as a gentleman, to do which he sup- 
posed it was only necessary to have a knowledge 
of hunting and hawking terms, to boast of his 
wealth, and to bold himself ready to quarrel on 
the slightest pretence. So full of misplaced valor 
was he, indeed, that he got into a quarrel with a 
servant who came with a letter to his uncle's 
house, and wliose respectful answers be mistook 
for insolence. He acted with such foolish violence 
that Mr. Knowell, ashamed of his conduct, in the 
end ordered him to leave the room if he could not 
behave himself with more sense and discretion. 

The letter was addressed " To Master Edward 
Knowell," and evidently intended for the son, but 
as the old gentleman was named Edward also, and 
was curious to see some of his son's correspond- 
ence with Wellbred, — whom the servant told him 
had sent it, — he opened and read it. 

The result was an unpleasant surprise, and a 
new revelation of the cliaracter of Mr. Wellbred, 
whose modest and discreet demeanor his son had 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 13 

praised in the highest terms. The missive, which 
was couched in very licentious language, bade 
Knowell to leave his vigilant father to the task 
of numbering the green apricots on his garden 
wall, and to come over to the old Jewry, where 
there was some rare sport in pickle for him. The 
writer had come across a pair of odd fellows, the 
one a rhymer, the other of indescribable charac- 
tei', from whom he hoped they could extract some 
rare fun. 

Mr. KnowcU read this epistle in deep astonish- 
ment. " Why, what unhallowed ruffian would 
have written in such a scurrilous manner to a 
friend !" he exclaimed. " But I perceive that af- 
fection makes a fool of any man too much the 
father." — " Brainworm !" 

Young Knowell's servant quickly answered this 
summons. 

" Is the fellow gone that brought this letter ?" 
asked the old gentleman. 

" Yes, sir, a pretty while since." 

" Your young master spake not with him ?" 

" No, sir, he saw him not." 

" Take you this letter and deliver it to my son ; 
but with no notice that I have opened it, on your 
life." 

" Oh, Lord, sir, that were a jest, indeed !" an- 
swered Brainworm, with an expression of deep 
innocence, as he left the room with the letter. 

Yet the virtuous Brainworm had his own idea 
of the duty of a faithful servant. On handing 

2 



14 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

the letter to his young master, he did not hesi 
tate to tell him thut his father had opened and 
read it. 

" How looked he ? was he angry, or pleased ?" 
" Nay, sir, I saw him not open it." 
" Then how know you that he did so ?" 
" Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, 
to tell nobody that he had opened it ; which, un- 
less he had done, he would never fear to have it 
revealed." 

" That's true. I thank you, Brainworm." 
The young man read the letter with mingled 
doubt and laughter, — doubt as to how his father 
would take it ; laughter as to the comedy of the 
situation. He was too fond of sport, however, to 
lose that which his friend offered him, even at the 
risk of his father's displeasure, and decided that 
he would add to Wellbred's pair of odd customers 
a third, his worthy cousin, Stephen. 

The latter entered while Knowell was still 
laughing over the epistle, vowing that be would 
cudgel the servant who had insulted him. He 
looked sourly at his amused cousin, fancying at 
first that he was the object of his mirth. 

" Oh, now I see what he laughs at !" he ex- 
claimed. " It was at something in that letter. — 

By this good light, an he had laughed at me " 

" How now, Cousin Stephen, melancholy ?" 
asked Knowell. 

"Yes, a little: I thought you had laughed at 
me, cousin." 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 15 

" Why, what an I had, eoz ? what would you 
have done ?" 

" By this light, I would have told mine uncle." 

" Nay, if you would have told your uncle, 1 did 
laugh at you, coz." 

"Did you, indeed?" 

" Yes, indeed." 

" Why, then " 

" What then ?" asked Knowell, with an assumed 
fierceness. 

" I am satisfied ; it is sufficient." 

Knowell laughed again at this lame conclusion 
to a warlike preface, and in the end invited Stephen 
to accompany him on a visit to a friend in the 
Old Jewry, an invitation which the country cousin 
readily accepted. 

Meanwhile the old gentleman had taken deep 
thought about the new light which had been 
thrown on his son's pursuits. Sorry as he was to 
find him led into loose ways, he was wise enough 
to perceive that violent measures of repression 
might do more harm than good, and concluded 
that it was safer to win him by love from evil 
ways than to seek to drive him into virtue by fear. 
He resolved to follow him to the city, with the 
hope that something might happen to aid his pur- 
poses. 

This design became known to Brainworm, and 
he, out of loyalty to his young master, determined 
to throw himself in disguise in the old gentleman's 
way, and defeat his plans if possible. The disguise 



16 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

he assumed wus that of a maimed soldier, and thua 
apparelled he stationed himself in the open ground 
of Moorfields, which lay between Mr. Knowell's 
house and the city. 

The disguised servant, however, first encountered 
his young master and Stephen, whom he would 
have preferred to avoid, through fear of discovery. 
But as he could not escape unseen, he came boldly 
forward, with a long story of his services in the 
wars, his. present povert}', and an offer to sell 
his rapier, which he vowed was a pure Toledo. 
Stephen, whose only weapon at present was a 
cudgel, was at once eager to buy it, the more so 
as Knowell dissuaded him. 

" Come, come, you shall not buy it," exclaimed 
Knowell, who had not much faith in its Toledo 
qualities. " Hold, there's a shilling, fellow ; take 
your rapier." 

" Why, but I will buy it now, because you say 
so," persisted the obstinate fool ; " and there's 
another shilling, fellow ; I scorn to be outbidden. 
— What, shall I walk with a cudgel, like Higgin- 
bottom, and may have a rapier for money !" 

" You may buy one in the city," 

"Tut! I'll buy this in the field, so I will. 1 
have a mind to it because 'tis a field rapier. Tell 
me your lowest price." 

" Come away ; you are a fool." 

"Friend, I am a fool, that's granted," replied 
Stephen; "but I'll iiave it, for that word's sake. 
Follow me for your money." 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 17 

"At your service, sir," answered Brainworm. 

The cunning rogue, felicitating himself on hav- 
ing deceived his master, followed them, sold 
Stephen the worthless blade for a round sum, and 
returned to Moorfields in time to meet the elder 
Knovvell, who had appeared during his absence. 
Still pretending to be a poverty-stricken old sol- 
dier, he begged of him so importunately, that Mr. 
Knowell took him severely to task for conduct 
unbecoming one who had served in the wars. 

" What's your name ?" he asked in conclusion. 

" Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir." 

" If I should take you into my service, would 
you be honest, just, and true?" 

" Sir, by the honor of a soldier " 

"Nay, nay. I like not these affected oaths. 
Speak plainly, man." 

" I wish my fortunes were as happy as my ser- 
vice should be honest." 

" Well, follow me ; I'll prove if your deeds are 
in proportion to your words." 

He walked on, while Brainworm remained be- 
hind to relieve himself of laughter, with which, 
as he said, " never was bottle or bagpipe fuller," 

" Was thei-e ever seen a fox in years to betray 
himself thus ?" he exclaimed. " Now I shall be 
possessed of all his counsels ; and, through me, 
my young master. Oh, I shall abuse him intoler- 
ably ! This small piece of service will bring him 
clean out of love with the soldier forever. Why, 
this is better than to have stayed his journey! 
Vol. l.—b 2* 



^ 



18 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Well, I'll follow liim. Oh, how I long to be em- 
ployed !" 

Leaving the Knowells, father and son, to their 
plans and purposes, and Brainwonn to his devices, 
we must now precede them to their destination, 
and introduce to the reader some others of the 
characters of our story. 

Two of these were the pair of oddities of whom 
Wellbred had spoken, the one being a boastful 
soldier named Captain Bobadil, the other a foolish 
fellow named Matthew, who had made himself a 
worshipper of the brave-tongued captain. This 
heroic boaster was reduced by circumstances to 
dwell in the humble residence of Oliver Cob, a 
water-carrier, — a fact which he was by no means 
anxious to have known. Yet, humble as his lodg- 
ings were, he did not demean himself by paying 
for them, but, on the contrary, had borrowed forty 
shillings of Tib, the water-bearer's wife, paying 
his score in such dainty oaths as, " By the foot of 
Pharaoh !" " By the body of me !" " As I am a 
gentleman and a soldier 1" and the like, a style of 
conversation which his worthy host heard with 
awe and respect. 

Matthew, whose acquaintance with the captain 
was of recent date, sought him in these humble 
quarters, and was surprised to find his soldierly 
friend so inadequately lodged. Yet he concealed 
his opinion, saying, — 

" Trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging 
here ; very neat and private." 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 19 

" True, the cabin is convenient," answered Boba- 
dil, with a lordly air. " Yet, as I would not be too 
popular, and generally visited, I pray you to pos- 
sess no gentleman of our acquaintance with notice 
of my lodging." 

"Who, I, sir? no." 

" I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, 
above all the tumult and roar of fortune. — What 
new book have you there ? What ! Go by, 
Hieronymo ?" 

" Is it not well penned ?" 

" Well penned ! I would fain see all the poets 
of these times pen such another play as that was. 
Out on them, they are the most shallow, pitiful, 
barren fellows that live upon the face of the 
earth !" 

While Bobadil dressed for the street, Matthew 
read him some passages from the play thus highly 
lauded, ending with certain verses of his own, which 
his host saw fit to commend. In the conversation 
which ensued, Matthew told the captain of a 
quarrel he had recently had with Squire Down- 
right, Mr. Wellbred's half-brother, a choleric fel- 
low, who had ended by threatening to cudgel 
him. 

" By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall chartel 
him 1" exclaimed Bobadil. " I'll show you a trick 
or two ; you shall kill him at pleasure ; the first 
stoccata, if you will, by this air !" 

Bobadil thereupon bade his hostess bring them 
a pair of bed-staves, and gave his guest a lesson 



20 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 

in fencing, seeking to teach him a certain thrust 
that was sure death. In the end he dropped his 
pupil as tediously awkward. 

" Come, we'll go to some tavern, and have a bit ; 
and then I will teach you your trick. Why, I 
will learn you by the true judgment of the eye, 
hand, and foot, to control any enemy's point in 
the world. Should your enemy confront you with 
a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this hand ! you should, 
by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line, ex- 
cept it were hailshot, and spread. — What money 
have you about you, Master Matthew ?" 

" Faith, I have not past a two shillings, or so." 

" 'Tis somewhat with the least ; but come ; we 
will have a bunch of radish and salt to taste our 
wine, and a pipe of tobacco to close the orifice 
of the stomach ; and then we'll call to keep our 
appointment with young Wellbred : perhaps we 
shall meet the Corydon his brother there, and put 
him to the question." 

The destination of these worthies, in their 
search for Mr. Wellbred, was the house of his 
brother-in-law, Mr. Kitely, a wealthy merchant, 
with whom the j'oung man lodged. The association 
between Kitely and his guest was far from an 
agreeable one. Wellbred, from being a man of the 
most correct deportment, had fallen into an irregu- 
lar course of life, much to the annoyance of the 
worthy merchant. He complained of this to Down- 
right, the young man's half-brother, but got little 
satisfaction from that plain-sj)oken individual. 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 21 

" I know not what I should say to him, in the 
whole world," exclaimed Downright. " He values 
me at a cracked three-farthings, for aught I see. 
It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the 
bone. Counsel to him is as good as a shoulder of 
mutton to a sick horse. Let him spend and dom- 
ineer till his heart ache ; an he think to be re- 
lieved by me, when he is got into one o' your city 
pounds, he has got the wrong sow by the ear, i' 
faith, and claps his dish at the wrong man's door. 
I'll lay my hand on my half-penny, ere I part 
with it to fetch him out." 

Mr. Kitely's family, in addition to those named, 
consisted of his newly-married wife, of whom he 
was inordinately jealous, and her sister Bridget. 
The latter young lady counted Matthew among 
her lovers, his mode of courtship consisting in 
writing her verses by the rood, little of which 
the fair maiden ever saw. Matthew's poetry, on 
which he plumed himself greatly, was more bor- 
rowed than original, he laying all the poets of the 
time under contribution to supply his stock of 
love-verses. 

It was at Mr. Kitely's house that Matthew and 
Captain Bobadil called, after partaking of their 
wine and tobacco, to inquire for Mr. Wellbred. 
The young gentleman was not at home, as Kitely 
assured them, but the boastful Bobadil managed 
to get into a quarrel with the choleric Downright, 
who would have cudgelled him on the spot had 
not Kitely withheld him. Bobadil had called him 



22 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

a scavenger, an epithet which the hot-tempered 
gentleman could not stomach, and treasured up 
for repayment with interest on a future occasion. 

" These are my brother's consorts, these !" he ex- 
claimed, indignantly. " These are his comrades, 
his walking mates ! he's a gallant, a cavaliero, too, 
right hangman cut 1 Let me not live, an I could 
not find it in my heart to swinge the whole gang 
of 'em, one after another, and begin with him 
first! He shall hear on't, and that tightly, too, 
an I live, i' faith I" 

The various personages whom we have intro- 
duced to the reader had, as will be perceived, 
each his peculiar humor, or turn of mind. Of 
these none was more persistent than the jealousy 
of the worthy merchant, Mr. Kitely. Every 
word spoken by his wife, whether in aff'ection or 
otherwise, was tortured by his diseased imagina- 
tion into new food for jealousy, which vile passion 
possessed him like a fever. 

" What ails jou, sweetheart ?" she asked him, 
surprised by his abstracted manner. "Are you 
not well ?" 

" In truth, my head aches extremely of a sud- 
den," he replied. 

"Alas! how it burns!" she said, putting her 
hand to his forehead. "Keep you warm, dear; 
good truth, it is this new disease there's a num- 
ber are troubled with. For love's sake, sweet- 
heart, come in, out of the air." 

"A new disease!" he soliloquized, after she had 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 23 

left him. " I know not, new or old ; but like a 
pestilence it does infect the houses of the brain. 
Pirst it begins to work upon the phantasy ; and 
from thence, sends like contagion to the memory ; 
till not a thought or motion in the mind is free 
from the black poison of suspicion. What misery 
'tis to know this, or, knowing it, to be its abject 
victim! Well, well, I'll strive again, in spite of 
this black cloud, to be myself, and shake the fever 
off that thus shakes me." 

Leavins: him to his vain endeavor to over- 
come his baseless jealousy, we must betake our- 
selves to the Windmill Tavern, in the Old Jewry, 
a favorite resort, where Matthew and Bobadil 
found Wellbred, and where, in the midst of 
their conversation, young Knowell and Stephen 
entered. 

"Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome," ex- 
claimed Wellbred. " How dost thou, sweet spirit, 
mj^ genius ? These be the two I writ to thee of. 
Why, what drowsy humor holds you now ? Why 
do you not speak ?" 

" Oh, you are a fine gallant," answered Know- 
ell, testily. " You sent me a rare letter." 

" Why, was it not rare ?" 

" Ay, and your messenger as well. The fellow 
mistook my father for me, and gave him a full 
view of your flourishing style, some hour before I 
saw it." 

" Come, come, you jest ! — Why, what a dull 
slave I — Well, what said he to it ?" 



/ 
24 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" I know not what j but I have a shrewd guess 
what he thought." 

" What, what ?" 

"Many, that thou art some strange, dissolute 
young fellow, and I — a grain or two better, for 
keeping you company." 

" Tut ! that thought is like the moon in her last 
quarter, 'twill change shortly. But I pray thee 
be acquainted with my two hang-by's here; thou 
wilt take exceeding pleasure in them, if thou 
hearest them once go; my wind instruments; I'll 
wind them up. — But what strange piece of silence 
is this, the sign of the dumb man ?" 

"Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine," answered 
Knowell, with a laugh. " One that may make 
your music the fuller, an he please. He has his 
humor, sir." 

"Whatis't, whatis't?" 

" Faith, I'll leave him to the mercy of your 
search. If you can take him, so !" 

It was not long before the two fun-loving 
worthies had their wind instruments in full play, 
Bobadil boasting, Matthew retailing his poetry, 
and Stephen as melancholy as a raw oyster. This 
humor his jesting cousin had advised him to take, 
as the mark of a true gentleman, and the country 
gull played it at full pitch. 

" Truly, I am mightily given to melancholy," 
he said, with a sigh, to Matthew. 

" It's your onlj'- fine humor, sir," answered 
Matthew. " I am melancholy myself, divers times, 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 25 

sir; and then I do no more but take pen and 
paper, and overflow you half a score or a dozen 
of sonnets, at a sitting." 

" Truly, sir, I love such things out of measure." 

" Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study ; 
it's at your service." 

" I thank you, sir ; have you a stool there, to bo 
melancholy upon ?" 

" That I have ; and some papers of my own 
doing, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit 
in." 

" Cousin, is it well ?" asked Stephen, in an aside. 
" Am I melancholj^ enough ?" 

"Ay, excellent," answered Knowell. 

" Captain Bobadil, why muse you so ?" asked 
Wellbred. 

" He is melancholy, too," suggested Knowell. 

" Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honorable 
piece of service, was performed to-morrow, being 
St. Mark's day, shall be some ten years, now," 
answered the captain. 

This was the prelude to an extended bit of 
boasting, in which Bodadil performed miracles of 
valor that would have made any other man a 
commander-in-chief. He ended by showing his 
sword, which he said was a Toledo, and laughed 
scornfully at the Toledo blade with which Stephen 
sought to match it. 

" A Fleming, by heaven !" he exclaimed. " I 
could buy a thousand such for a guilder apiece." 

" I told you so, cousin," said Knowell. 

B 3 



26 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"The coney-catching rascal!" cried Stephen, 
fiercely. " I could eat the very hilts for anger. 
Would that I had the scurvy dog here, I'd show 
him the humor of a gentleman !" 

He had his wish much sooner than he expected, 
for Brain worm entered at that instant, still in dis- 
guise. 

"A miracle, cousin j look here, look here !" ex- 
claimed Knowell. 

" Oh — od's lid ! By your leave, do you know 
me, sir ?" blustered Stephen. 

" Ay, sir, I know you by sight." 

" You sold me a rapier, did you not ?" 
/ " Yes, marry did I, sir." 

" You said it was a Toledo, ha ?" 

" True, I did so." 

" But it is none." 

" No, sir, I confess it ; it is none." 

" Do you confess it ? Gentlemen, bear witness, 
he has confessed it ! Od's will, and j^ou had not 
confessed it " • 

" Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear !" 

" Nay, I have done. — Yet, by his leave, he is a 
rascal, under his favor, do you see." 

"Ay, b}'- his leave, he is, and under favor: a 
pretty piece of civility. — How like you hira ?" 
Knowell whispered to Wellbred. 

" It's a most precious fool, make much of him." 

They were interrupted by Bi'ainworm, who took 
them aside from their foolish companions, and 
surprised them by a revelation of his disguise, 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 27 

and his adventures therein, telling Knowell that 
his father was on his track, and was at that 
moment at Justice Clement's, in Coleman Street, 
whence ho had sent him in search of his son. 
This news the young friends took as an amusing 
joke, and vowed that they would outwit the old 
gentleman, or apprentice themselves as porters. 

Leaving the tavern, the party sought Mr. 
Kitely's house. Here they had been but a few 
minutes when a quai*rel arose between Bobadil 
and Cob, his landlord, who had ventured to speak 
an ill word for tobacco — a substance then recently 
introduced. 

"Ods me," he said, expressing a general opinion 
of the period, " I marvel what pleasure or felicity 
they have in taking this roguish tobacco ? It's 
good for nothing but to choke a man and fill him 
full of smoke and embers. Thei-e were four who 
died out of one house last week with taking of 
it. By the stocks, an there were no wiser men 
thaft I, I'd have it present whipping, man and 
woman, that should deal with a tobacco-pipe: 
why, it will stifle them all in the end, as many as 
use it ; it's little better than ratsbane." 

Bobadil, who was a slave to the Indian weed, 
flew into a violent rage at this, and fell upon the 
water-carrier, whom he beat so roundly that the 
others had to come to his rescue. Cob escaped 
at last, vowing revenge, while the valorous cap- 
tain allowed his choler to evaporate in a series of 
strange oaths. These Master Stephen sought to 



28 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

imitate, deeming that they held the very essence 
of gentility. 

" Oh, he swears most admirably !" exclaimed 
the admiring fool. " By Pharaoh's foot! Body o' 
Caesar!— I shall never do it, sure.— Upon raino 
honor, and by St. George !— No, I have not the 
right grace." 

Cob had meanwhile made his way towards 
Justice Clement's, whither he had been sent in 
search of Mr. Kitely, who, in his jealous humor, 
had left word that he was to be sent for instantly 
if Wellbred brought any strangers to his house. 
The angry water-bearer had another purpose, 
which was to lodge with the justice a complaint 
against Bobadil, for the beating he had received. 

Justice Clement, whom we must next inti-oduee 
to the reader, was a personage with an odd humor 
of his own ; " a good lawyer, a great scholar," Well- 
bred had said, in speaking of him, "but the only 
mad, merry old fellow in Europe." 

" I have heard many of his jests in the TiJni- 
versity," answered Knowell. " They say he will 
commit a man for taking the wall of his horse." 

" Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, or 
serving of God ; anything, indeed, if it come in 
the way of his humor." 

This reputation the worthy justice had well 
earned, and seemed inclined to maintain. For 
when Cob complained of the beating he had re- 
ceived, and asked for a warrant to arrest his 
assailant, the fun-loving magistrate threatened to 



EVERT MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 29 

send him to prison himself, for daring to utter 
libels against tobacco. 

" What I a threadbare rascal, a beggar like this 
to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so 
generally received in the courts of princes, the 
chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, 
the cabins of soldiers ! Eoger, away with him !" 

And so earnest did his intention to send him to 
prison appear, that Mr. Knowell, who was pres- 
ent, came to the poor fellow's rescue. 

" Give him his warrant, Eoger," answered the 
justice, with a laugh. " He shall not go. I did 
but scare the knave." 

"The Lord maintain your worship!" prayed 
Cob. 

"Away now. — How now, Master Knowell, in 
dumps!" he said to Mr. Knowell. " Come, this 
becomes not." 

" I would, sir, I could not feel my cares." 

"Your cares are nothing," answered Justice 
Clement, heartily. " They are like my cap, soon 
put on and as soon put oif. What ! your son is old 
enough to govern himself; let him run his course ; 
it's the only way to make him a staid man. If 
he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a 
licentious liver, then you had reason ; but being 
none of these, mirth's my witness, an I had twice 
as many cares as you have, I'd drown them all 
in a cup of sack. Come, come, let's try it," and 
he led in his uneasy friend to administer this 
panacea. 

3* 



30 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Meanwhile Wellbrcd and his friends had entered 
into conversation with Dame Kitely and her sis- 
ter Bridget, whom Matthew set himself to court 
by repeating to her a series of verses, which 
Ivnowell vowed were all stolen. Whether or not, 
it was evident that neither he nor his poetry were 
much to the young lady's taste, she seeming much 
more inclined to favor young Knowell, whom she 
now met for the first time. Nor was her attrac- 
tion to the young man ill placed, for he found his 
friend's sister to be a maiden of rare beauty and 
wit, and vowed in his heart that she was well 
■worth the gift of a man's love. 

Matthew's verses proved still less to the taste of 
another member of the household, Mr. Down- 
right, who showed his ill humor with the whole 
party so strongly that Wellbred took offence, and 
no long time passed before swords were drawn 
and challenges given. The two ladies, at this, 
screamed for help, while Kitely, who had just 
returned, rushed in with his servants and parted 
the combatants. 

"Why, how now, brother, who enforced this 
brawl ?" asked Kitely, after the visitors had with- 
drawn. 

" A sort of lewd rake-hells, that care neither 
for God nor the devil," answered Downright, still 
fuming with rage. " And they must come here 
to read ballads, and roguery, and trash ! I'll mar 
the knot of them ere I sleep ; especially that brag- 
ging Bob ; and songs and sonnets, his fellow." 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 31 

" Brother, you are too violent," pleaded Bridget. 
"You know my brother Wellbred's temper will 
not bear any reproof; at least where it might 
wound him in opinion or respect." 

" Respect ! Among such as have no spark of 
manhood or good manners ! Respect ! I'm 
ashamed to hear you!" and her angry brother 
left the room in a huff. 

" Respect, yes," said Bridget, firmly. " One of 
them was a civil gentleman, who very worthily 
demeaned himself." 

" Oh, that was some love of yours, sister," said 
Kitely. 

" A love of mine ! — If it were so, brother, you'd 
pay my portion sooner than you think for." 

" Indeed, he seemed to be a gentleman of a fair 
disposition and excellent good parts," added Mrs. 
Kitely. 

This unlucky remark stirred up again the dis- 
eased fancy of her jealous spouse. It was his 
■wife's lover, then, not his sister's, he said to him- 
self, whom they had thus highly praised. 

" Are any of the gallants within, Thomas ?" he de- 
manded of his cashier, after the ladies had retired. 

" No, sir, they are all gone." 

" What gentleman was it they praised so ?" 

" They call him Master Knowell ; a handsome 
young gentleman, sir." 

" Ay, I thought so ; my mind gave me as much. 
I'll die but they have hid him in the house, some- 
where; I'll go and search. Come with me, 



32 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Thomas ; be true to me, and you shall find me a 
generous master." 

While the jealous husband was thus giving 
himself unnecessary torture, young Knowell, who 
had been deeply smitten by Bridget's charms of 
face and manner, was begging her brother's con- 
sent to pay his addresses to her. He found him 
more than willing. 

" She is a maid of good ornament and much 
modesty," he declared, "and by this hand thou 
shalt have her ! I conceive so worthily both of 
her and of you, that I cannot fancy a better 
mating." 

" Hold, hold, be temperate. She may not have 
me." 

" Thou shalt see. Appoint but where to meet, 
and as I am an honest man, I'll bring her." 

That the consent of Kitely, Downright, and the 
elder Knowell could be had to this hastily-devised 
marriage, however, seemed questionable to the 
conspirators, and they deemed it their safest 
course to complete the business clandestinely, — 
the young lady consenting, — and to acquaint the 
elders with it when it was too late to object. 

Wellbred lost no time in putting his scheme 
into execution, and, at the same time, in laying 
the foundations of a neat jest on Kitely's jealousy. 
To this end, he privately told Dame Kitely that 
her husband was in the habit of visiting the wife 
of Cob, the water-bearer, during the husband's 
absence. This stirred up the good wife's anger. 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 33 

" I'll after him presently," she exclaimed. " I 
would to fortune 1 could take him there, i' faith I'd 
return him his own, I warrant him." 

Hardly had she set off before her husband en- 
tered and aslied for her. He was informed that 
she had gone out, and at once his jealousy flamed 
up. 

" How ! is my wife gone forth ?" he demanded, 
" Whither, for God's sake ?" 

" I'll tell you, brother, whither I suspect she's 
gone," said AYellbred. 

" Whither, good brother?" 

" To Cob's house, I believe ; but, keep my coun- 
sel." 

" I will, I will : to Cob's house ! doth she haunt 
Cob's?— Why? to meet her lover? If I should 
find him there now " 

Off he went in a fever of jealousy, leaving the 
laughing Wellbred with the coast clear to prose- 
cute his friend's suit with Bridget. Calling her 
into his counsel, he was gratified to find that she 
was in no sense averse to the projected marriage. 
The favor with which she had regarded young 
Knowell had quickly ripened into love, and with 
little hesitation she accompanied her brother on 
his clandestine errand. 

While they were on their way to the appointed 
rendezvous. Cob's house had become the scene of 
a complicated misunderstanding ; for in addition to 
Kitely and his wife, the elder Knowell had been 
sent thither b}'' Brainworm, on the pretence that 
Vol. 1.~~c 



34 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

he would find his son there, in company with a 
woman of bad character. The complication was 
added to by Cob, who, being not free from jeal- 
ousy, had strictly charged his wife to keep his 
doors shut, and to admit no one in his absence. 

The result was a ludicrous one. First came 
the old gentleman, knocking at Cob's door, and 
demanding young Knowell. Then came Dame 
Kitely, demanding her husband, and mistaken by 
old Knowell for the woman his son was to meet. 
Close on their heels came Kitely, his jealous fancy 
spying in the old gentleman his wife's secret 
lover. Last of all came Cob, who beat his wife 
for admitting all these people to his house in defi- 
ance of his orders. The complicated wrangle that 
followed was only ended when Kitely proposed 
that they should take their grievances to Justice 
Clement, a proposal to which they willingly as- 
sented, for each of them hud a separate wrong to 
right. 

Leaving them, we must return to the remainder 
of our characters, particularly to Bobadil and 
Matthew, and to the choleric Downright, who was 
in hot search of this oddly-associated pair, with 
an ardent desire for revenge. 

From the Windmill Tavern, the captain and 
his companion, in company with young Knowell 
and Stephen, had sought the open space of Moor- 
fields, where Bobadil outdid himself in boasting, 
little dreaming of the load of disgrace that was 
ready to fall upon his head. As for that clown. 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 35 

Downright, he boastfully declared, he should re- 
ceive his deserts. Matthew had been taught a 
trick with the rapier which was certain death, if 
managed neatly. 

" Captain," asked Knowell, slyly, " Did you ever 
prove yourself upon any of our master's of defence 
here !"* 

" Oh, good sir, yes ! I hope he has," protested 

Matthew. 

"By honesty, fair sir, believe me," declared the 
captain, " I have graced them exceedingly ; and 
yet now they hate me, and why ? because I am 
excellent, and for no other vile reason upon the 
earth." 

"This is strange and barbarous, as ever I 
heard," protested Knowell. 

" Note, sir. They have assaulted me, some 
three, foui-, five, six of them together, as I have 
walked alone in divers skirts of the town ; where 
I have driven them afore me the whole length of 
a street, pitying to hurt them, believe me. By 
myself, I could have slain them all, but I delight 
not in murder." 

" Believe me, sir, you should be on your guard. 
Consider what a loss your skill would be to the 
nation !" said Knowell. 

"Indeed, that might be some loss; but who 
respects it?" answered Bobadil. " I will tell you, 
sir, by the way of private, and under seal : I am a 
gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; 
but were I known to her majesty and the lords, 



36 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

— observe me, — I would undertake, upon this poor 
head and life, for the public benefit of the state, 
not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects 
in general ; but to save the one-half, nay, three 
parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and 
against what enemy soever. And how would I 
do it, think you?" 

"Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive," an- 
swered Knowell. 

" Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, 
to myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen they 
should be of good spirit, strong and able con- 
stitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, a 
character that I have ; and I would teach these 
nineteen the special rules, as your punto, your 
reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your 
passada, your montanto ; till they could all play 
very near, or altogether as well as myself This 
done, say the enemy were foi'ty thousand strong, 
we twenty would come into the field the tenth of 
March, or thereabouts ; and we would challenge 
twenty of the enemy; they could not in their 
honor refuse us. Well, we would kill them ; 
challenge twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, 
kill them ; twenty more, kill them too ; and thus 
would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's 
twenty score; twenty score, that's two hundred; 
two hundred a day, five days a thousand ; forty 
thousand ; forty times five, five times forty, two 
hundred days kills them all up b}^ computation. 
And this will I venture my poor gcntleman-hke 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 37 

carcass to perform, provided there be no treason 
practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood ; 
that is, civilly by the sword." 

" Why, are you so sure of your hand, captain, 
at all times ?" 

" Tat ! never miss thrust, upon my reputation 
■with you." 

" I would not stand in Downright's state then, 
an you meet him, for the wealth of any one street 
in London." 

" Why, sir, you mistake me ; if he were here 
now, by this welkin, I would not draw my weapon 
upon him. But I will bastinado him, by the 
bright sun, wherever I meet him." 

" Ods so, look where he is ! yonder he 
comes," and Knowell turned aside to hide his 
laughter. 

Downright appeared as he spoke, grumbling to 
himself at his ill luck in not being able to meet 
those bragging rascals. A change came upon his 
face on perceiving them. 

" Oh, Pharaoh's foot, have I found you?" he ex- 
claimed. " Come, draw to your tools ; draw, 
gypsy, or I'll thrash you." 

" G-entleman of valor, I do believe in thee ; hear 

me " began Bobadil, with a marked change of 

countenance. 

" Draw your weapon, then." 

"Tall man, I never thought on it till now," 
protested the captain. " Body of me, I had a 
warrant of the peace served on me, even now as I 

4 



38 TALES FROM THE DRAJIATISTS. 

came along, by a water-bearer; this gentleman 
saw it, Master Matthew." 

" 'Sdeath ! you will not draw, then ?" Without 
further waste of words, Downi'ight fell upon him, 
wrested his weapon from him, and made his cud- 
gel play stoccata on the captain's unresisting car- 
cass, while Matthew, fancying that his turn would 
come next, took hastily to his heels. 

The noble captain bore his severe pummelling 
with a marvellons patience, failing to find even a 
word in defence until Downright had gone, weary 
of the exercise, when he protested that he had 
been struck by a planet, and had no power to 
touch his weapon. 

'•Ay, like enough," answered Knowell, satiri- 
cally ; " I have heard of many that have been 
beaten under a planet. Go, get j^ou to a surgeon. 
'Slid ! an these be your tricks, your passados, and 
your montantos, I'll none of them. O, manners I 
that this age should bring forth such creatures ! 
that nature should be at leisure to make them ! 
Come, coz." 

Stephen obeyed, after possessing himself of 
Downright's cloak, which he had dropped and 
forgotten in his rage. Captain Bobadil sought 
redress in a more peaceful fashion than befitted 
his loud protestations, obtaining a warrant of 
arrest against Downright, to procui-e which he 
pawned his silk stockings and Matthew his ear- 
rings. The warrant was served by Brainworm, 
who had now assumed the disguise of a city ser- 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 39 

geant oi* bailiff, and wlio, in support of his new 
character, arrested, first Stephen, as wearing 
Downright's cloak, and afterwards Downright 
himself. 

The current of our story next bears us to Jus- 
tice Clement's office, whither most of our charac- 
ters have gone. They could not have sought a 
better place for the settlement of their disputes, 
for the worthy justice had a marked talent for 
untying hard knots. His first visitors were 
Kitely and his wife. Cob and his dame, and the 
elder Knowell. Some shrewd questioning on the 
p>art of the magistrate quickly untangled their 
difficulties, and proved that they had all been 
gulled by a trick of the fun-loving Wellbred, — a 
revelation that made the merchant thoroughly 
ashamed of his jealousy. 

They were interrupted by a message to tho 
justice that a soldier desired to speak with him. 
"A soldier!" he exclaimed. "My armor, my 
sword, quickly." He armed himself in haste. 
" Kow let the soldier enter." 

The soldier proved to bo Captain Bobadil, who 
entered, followed by Matthew, and preferred a 
complaint against Downright of having beaten 
him in the street, though ho had not offered to 
resist him. 

" O God's precious ! is this the soldier ?" cried 
the justice. " Here, take my armor off, quickly ; 
'twill make him swoon, I fear ; he is not fit to look 
on it, that put up a blow." 



40 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"An't pleaso your worship, he was bound to 
the peace," said Matthew. 

"Why, an he were, sir, his hands were not 
bound, were they?" 

At this moment Brainworra, in his disguise of 
a city sergeant, entered with his two prisoners. 
The justice questioned them closely, asking under 
whose warrant they had been arrested, as he had 
given none. Downright replied that he had not 
seen the warrant. 

" Why, Master Downright," cried the justice, 
" are you such a novice, to be served, and never 
see the warrant ?" 

" Marry, sir, this sergeant came to me and said 
he must serve it, and he would use me kindly, 
and so " 

"Oh, God's pity, was it so, sir?" exclaimed the 
justice. '■'■ He must serve it! Give me my long 
sword there, and help me down. So come on, 
sir varlet. I must cut off your legs, sirrah." 
Brainworm, in a fright, fell on his knees. " Nay, 
stand up ; Til use you kindly. I must cut off your 
legs, I say ; there is no remedy. I must cut off 
your ears, you rascal ; I must cut off your nose ; I 
must cut off your head." 

Brainworn was kept dancing to escape the 
sweep of the long sword, with which the humor- 
ous justice accented his words. 

"O, good sir, I beseech you !" pleaded the culprit. 
** Nay, good Master Justice !" 

" You knave, you slave, you rogue, do you say 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 41 

you must, sirrah ? Away with him to the jail ; 
I'll teach you a trick, for your must, sir." 

" Nay, sir, if you will commit me, it shall be 
for more than this," and the roguish servant 
threw off his borrowed suit and appeared in his 
proper person. 

" How is this ?" cried the justice. 

" My man Brainworm !" exclaimed Mr. Knowell. 

Brain worm, in reply, explained his various 
devices ; how he had deceived his master in the 
disguise of an old soldier ; how he had made 
Formal, the justice's clerk, drunk, and stolen 
his dress ; and how he had finally pawned this for 
the robe of a city sergeant. 

" Body o' me, a merry knave !" cried the justice. 
" Give me a bowl of sack. If he belong to you, 
Master Knowell, I bespeak your pardon. — " Come, 
sirrah, unfold now what use you had for my 
fellow Formal's suit ?" 

" I used it to get this gentleman. Master Kitely, 
out of the way, with a message from your 
worship, while Master Wellbred might make a 
conveyance of Mistress Bridget to my young 
master." 

This information created a general surprise. 

" How ! my sister stolen away ?" cried Kitely. 

"My son is not married, I hope," exclaimed 
Knowell. 

" Faith, sir, as sure as love, a priest, and three 
thousand pounds, which is her portion, can make 
them. By this time they are ready to bespeak 

4* 



42 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

their wedding supper at the Windmill, except 
some friend hero invite them home." 

" Marr}', that will I !" exclaimed the merry- 
justice, in hearty tones. " Their friends have no 
cause to he sorry, if I know the young couple 
aright. Here, I drink to you for your good news. 
Sirrah, go and fetch them hither upon my war- 
rant," he said to a seiwant. " Now, I pray you, 
what have you done with my man Formal ?" 

This question was answered by the appearance 
of Formal himself, who entered thoroughly 
sobered, and dressed in a suit of ancient armor, 
which he had found iu the room where Brain- 
worm had left him. 

While the company was still laughing at the 
poor fellow's ludicrous and downcast aspect, the 
newly-married couple made their appearance, 
accompanied by Wellbred. 

" Who be these ?" exclaimed the justice. " Oh, 
the young company ! Welcome, welcome. Give 
you joy. Nay, Mistress Bridget, blush not ; you 
are not so fresh a bride but the news of it is come 
hither before you. Master bridegroom, I have 
made your peace, give me your hand. I will do as 
much for all the rest ere you forsake my roof." 

This he did, in his own cheery way, laughing 
Kitely out of his jealousy ; emptying Matthew's 
pockets of their load of stolen verses, which he 
ordered to be burned ; and ordering a wedding 
supper. As for the various culprits, he disposed 
of them as follows : 



EVEKT MAN IN HIS HUMOR. 43 

" To dispatch these : — you sign of the soldier 
and picture of the poet ; while we are at supper 
you two shall penitently fast in my court Avithout ; 
and if you will, you may pray there that we shall 
be so merry within as to forgive or forget you 
when we come out." 

" And what shall I do ?" asked Stephen. 

" Oh ! I had lost a sheep an he had not 
bleated! Why, sir, you shall give Mr. Down- 
right his cloak ; and shall have a trencher and a 
napkin in the buttery, with Cob and his wife here 
for company. Come, I conjure the rest of you to put 
off all discontent : you. Master Downright, your 
anger ; you, Master Knowell, your cares ; Master 
Xitely and his wife, their jealousy. This night 
we'll dedicate to friendship, love, and laughter. 
Master bridegroom, take your bride and lead; 
every one a fellow." 

And with the merry justice to head the table, 
the wedding supper of the newly-married pair 
passed off in the rarest round of jollity. 



PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 

BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



[The most famous of literary partnerships in 
the history of mankind is that of the dramatists 
h^^^e named, two of the most prolific playwrights 
and ablest lyric and descriptive poets of the 
Elizabethan age. So intimate was their friend- 
ship that they lived in the same house and had 
clothes and all other things in common, and so 
closely allied were they in mind that it is im- 
possible to discover what part each of them con- 
tributed to their plays. 

Francis Beaumont was born in 1584 and died 
in 1616. He was educated at Oxford, and after- 
wards became an intimate friend of Ben Jonson 
and the other eminent frequenters of the famous 
Mermaid Tavern. Here he probably first met 
John Fletcher, who was five years older than 
himself, and had been educated at Cambridge. 
Fletcher's first play was the " Woman Hater," 
produced in 1607. His dramatic partnership 
with Beaumont began after that date, a large 
number of plays being produced by the two in 
common, while after Beaumont's death Fletcher 
44 




JOHN Fl.ETVHl.K. 



AN\<%, 



minent froqu. 

Merumid T: Here he 

v.iio was fiv 

^^ad been educ 

iCed it 
Beaumon 



COiiiiuun, wuiiC' -XiuLeuor 



44 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 45 

produced many plays, partly alone, and partly in 
concert with other dramatists. It is believed that 
Shakespeare took part in the writing of " The Two 
Noble Kinsmen," and that Fletcher had a share 
in Shakespeare's " Henry VIII." Fletcher died in 
1625. 

The plays of these two dramatists fail to reach 
the higher levels of the art. Their power of 
characterization is not deep, nor are they capable 
of expressing sentiment and passion in their 
deeper manifestations, though they had an excel- 
lent knowledge of stage effect, and much poetical 
ability. Morally they are deficient, even the 
best of their plays, " The Maid's Tragedy," 
being deeply infiltrated with licentiousnes. This 
play, and " Philaster," with the powerful passages 
in " The Two Noble Kinsmen," alone hold a high 
rank in dramatic composition. We give the story 
of '• Philaster," as the most attractive example of 
their inventive genius.] 

The King of Calabria had a beautiful and 
charming daughter named Arethusa, for whom, 
as she had reached the proper age to marry, 
he wished to contract an alliance that would 
strengthen his power and add glory to his reign. 
The fame of the beauty of this princess had 
spread far through the neighboring kingdoms, 
and brought her many suitors, the latest of whom 
was Pharamond, a prince of Spain, who had come 
to Messina as a suitor for her hand. This pro- 



46 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

posed alliance pleased the king greatly, much 
more, indeed, than it did his daughter or his peo- 
ple. Arelhusa felt disdain rather than love for 
the weak-faced, conceited, and haughty foreign 
prince. And the thought of this foppish stranger 
marrying the heir of the kingdom, and becoming 
their future sovereign, was far from agreeable 
to the people of Messina, who had views of their 
own as to the heir to the throne. 

The principal cause of their opposition was 
this. The late king of Calabria had made war 
upon Sicily, conquered it, and deposed its king, 
adding the conquered kingdom to his own. The 
deposed monarch had since died, but his son, Phi- 
laster, still lived, and was so noble, brave, and vir- 
tuous a prince that all the people loved him and 
pitied his misfortune. So popular was he, indeed, 
that the present king, though greatly fearing him, 
dared not deprive him of his liberty. A recent 
threat to imprison him had thrown the whole 
city into revolt, nor had the rebels laid down 
their arms until they saw Philaster ride through 
the streets in full freedom. Then they threw up 
their hats, kindled bonfires, and crowded the 
taverns to drink the health of their favorite. 
These adherents of Prince Philaster now feared 
that the Spanish alliance was favored by the king 
that he might bring in the power of a foreigrj 
nation with which to awe his own, and that they 
would then be oppressed and the hberty and life 
of their favorite be in danger. A marriage 



philaster; or, love lies bleeding. 47 

between Philaster and Arethusa would have been 
far more to their liking, as bringing the rightful 
heir to the throne, and cementing the union be- 
tween Sicily and Calabria ; but no such thought as 
this seemed to have entered the mind of the kins;. 
Such a match would have brought joy to others 
than the citizens, for Philaster and Arethusa were 
secretly in love with each other. Truly, he had 
never spoken of his love to her, nor she to him ; 
but he adored her in seci-et, while she, though 
seemingly yielding to her father's command to 
accept Prince Pharamond as her betrothed, had 
done so with a mental reservation to marry none 
but Philaster, if he should return her love. 

Philaster had no thought of submitting tamely 
to the king's plan of giving the crown of Sicily 
to a foreigner. Aside from his love for Arethusa, 
he felt that this crown was rightfully his, and 
did not pi'opose to yield it to a " prince of popin- 
jays," as he scornfully called Pharamond. 

The king had invited the high lords and ladies 
of Messina to his court to meet the Spanish 
prince, but so strong was the feeling against the 
foreign alliance that few responded to this invi- 
tation, and all that came were friends to Philaster. 
In the midst of the audience, while Pharamond 
was loudly declaring that his reign would be so 
easy that every man should be prince and law 
unto himself, and conceitedly telling the princess 
that she would have a " man of men " for her- 
husband, Philaster entered and boldly told the 



48 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

boasting stranger that the kingdom he sought 
belonged to another, and was not to be had for 
the askinor. 

" I tell you this, Pharamond," ho haughtily 
said, " when you are king, look that I be dead 
and my name ashes. Before that day of shame 
this very ground you tread on, this fat and fertile 
earth that bears your pride, shall gape and swal- 
low you and your nation as into a grave. By 
Nemesis, it shall !" 

The king had given Philaster leave to speak 
freely ; but he feared the effect upon the people 
of this bold language, and angrily drew the indig- 
nant youth aside, bidding him to tell in private 
what uneasy spirit jDossessed him. 

" It is my father's spirit," declared Philaster. 
" He tells me that I was a king's heir, and bids 
me be a king. When I would sleep he dives into 
my fancy, and brings me shapes that kneel and 
call me ' King.' — Yet I know that he is a factious 
spirit, noble sir, and I will suppress him. While 
you reign I am your faithful subject." 

"Philaster, I like not this," said the kin o", in 
fear and anger. " For this once, sirrah, I pardon 
your wild speech ; but take good heed, and tempt 
me not too far, lest I dispossess you alike of throne 
and life. I will tame you, sir, if you tame not 
yourself." 

With these words he turned angrily away, 
and left the presence-chamber with Pharamond, 
though all could see that he had grown pale and 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 49 

trembled with emotion. The gentlemen who re- 
mained, crowded about Philaster, eager to learn 
what he had said to throw the king into a sweat 
that stood upon his brow like a cold winter dew. 

" How do you, worthy sir ?" asked one, 

"Well; very well," answered Philaster. "If 
the king please, I find that I may live many 
years." 

" The king must please, while we know what 
and who you are," answered Dion, an old lord, 
and one of Philaster's chief adherents. " If any 
seek to harm you we'll rouse the people in your 
name, till your enemies shall beg for mercy at 
your swoi'd's point." 

" Friends, no more," said Philaster. " Trust 
me not to forget your love and proffered service, 
if peril should confront me. But the time is not 
yet." 

His conference with the lords was broken by 
the entrance of a lady of the court, who told 
him that the princess had sent for him, and 
wished to see him. Philaster, full of joy at this, 
promised gladly to attend her, at which Dion 
bi'oke out into words of warning, saying that this 
mission might cover some foul plot to take his 
life. But the ardent young prince was not in the 
mood to listen to the counsels of prudence. Love 
with him was stronger than fear, and he resolved to 
follow the lady, whatever might come of it. Find- 
ing that he could not move him from his purpose, 
Dion left the palace, with the intention of advis- 
VoL. I. — c d 5 



50 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

ing his friends of the prince's peril, for he greatly 
feared that the king designed some treachery. 

His dread was ill placed. Arethusa had really 
Bent for the prince, and with a purpose far re- 
moved from treason. At first, indeed, she made 
a show of blaming him bitterly for his late in- 
temperate words, in which he had called her 
dowry in question. She told hira that both king- 
doms were hers, and that she must possess them ; 
but when he pressed her in tones of satire to say 
what else she craved, she would not answer till 
he had turned aside his face. Then, with blushing 
cheeks and trembling lips, she said, — 

" I must have them — and thee." 

"Me?" 

" Thy love, Philaster j without which all these 
lands will serve me for no use but to be buried in." 

" Love you ! By all my hopes, I do above my 
life!" he cried, in sudden ecstasy. "Yet I feared 
I loved in vain." 

" In vain !" cried the princess, reproachfully. 
"Your soul is mine, Philaster. The gods have 
made me love you, and surely our love is blest 
in that their secret justice is mingled with it." 

Arethusa's blushing confession filled Philaster's 
Boul with the deepest joy. lie had not hoped for 
such a rich response to his heart's desire, and 
gladly sealed their souls' betrothal with an ardent 
kiss on her sweet lips. But their vows of love 
Boon gave way to more eai-thly thoughts. Their 
secret must not yet be known. How should they 



philastek; or, love lies bleeding. 51 

hide it, and yet gain opportunities for loving in- 
tercourse ? 

" I have a boy," said Philaster, " the trustiest, 
lovingest, and gentlest lad that ever master kept. 
Lately, when hunting, I found him by a foun- 
tain in the forest, where he sat weeping and weav- 
ing garlands of flowers. When I asked him 
his story, he told me that his parents had died, 
leaving him to the mercy of the fields, the springs, 
and the sun. I brought this woodland waif home, 
and cannot but love him for his gentleness. I 
will send him to wait on you, for we can find no 
more trusty messenger of love." 

That this boy, Bellario, loved Philaster, any 
one must have said who saw them together. And 
when Philaster had sought his home, and told the 
pretty lad of the service he wished him to per- 
form, Bellario wej)t as though his heart would 
break, and vowed that his master wished to 
throw him off. 

" Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay that, 
trust me, I could weep to part with thee," an- 
swered Philaster. ''I do not turn thee off, for 
when thou art with her I love thou dwellest 
still with me. When this trust is ended I will 
again with joy receive thee." 

Bellario obeyed with weeping eyes, and such a 
show of love for his master that the latter beheld 
it with surprise. Little dreamed he of the truth, 
— that the seeming soft-faced boy was really a 
woman, and loved him with a woman's love. 



52 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Bellario's true name was Euphrasia, and she was 
the daughter of old Dion. She had first grown 
to love Philaster from her father's praises of his 
honor and virtue, and afterwards from seeing him 
and hearing him converse. Led by her love, she 
had left home on a feigned pilgrimage, and, dis- 
guising herself as a bo}^, had placed herself where 
he might find her, having first made a vow never 
to reveal her sex to mortal man. This vow was 
the source of much future misery, as the course 
of our story will reveal. 

As for Arethusa, the seeming gentle lad so won 
her heart that she soon loved him next to Philaster, 
and the more so that he told tales sweet to her 
ears of Philaater's passionate devotion. 

" If it be love to sit cross-armed and sigh away 
the day," said Bellario, softly ; " if it be love to 
weep himself away when he but hears of any 
lady dead, fearing such chance for you ; if, when 
he goes to rest, to name you once after his every 
prayer, as others drop a bead, be to be in love, 
then, madame, I dare swear he loves you well." 

" Oh, you are a cunning boy, and have been 
taught to lie for your lord's credit," cried Are- 
thusa, happily. "But any lie that sounds like 
this is welcomer than truth that says he loves 
me not." 

She stroked the lad's hair and patted his soft 
cheeks as she spoke, but kissed him not, — her 
kisses of love were kept for Philaster. But she 
ordered that the fair boy should be richly dressed, 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 53 

and kept him by her as though her heart had 
overflown to him. 

Over her ecstasy of secret love, however, there 
hung a cloud of coming woe, — the suit of Phara- 
mond and her father's favor of it. But, fortunately 
for the lovers, the base-minded S})aniard was too 
licentious in disposition to keep a show of virtue 
even at the court of his intended father-in-law. 
So open was he in wickedness, indeed, that the 
king discovered him seeking to seduce a lady of 
the court, and in his moment of anger declared 
that no such lustful villain should ever marry a 
dauijhter of his. 

So furious he grew, indeed, that Megra, the 
lady in question, retorted on him ; declaring that 
the honor of Arethusa, his proud daughter, was 
not above suspicion, that she kept a handsome 
boy of eighteen as her leman ; and advising him, 
before charging others with lack of virtue, to 
look at home more closely. 

This chance accusation, thrown out at random 
by a wanton, was the source of woes unnumbered 
to the lovers. The tale soon got abroad, and the 
multitude, ever ready to believe evil of the great, 
and ill disposed to the princess from their dislike 
to the Spanish betrothal, asked no proof to credit 
it. It came quickly to the ears of Pbilaster, 
and roused him to fury. But when Dion, whose 
sterling honesty was bej^ond question, assured 
the indignant lover that the story was true, and 
that he had personal knowledge that the princess 

5* 



64 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

was living in lascivious intercourse with her hand- 
some page, his anger changed to a fierce passion 
of jealousy. 

Dion had lied, deeming that only thus could 
he draw Philaster from his infatuation. He and 
his friends knew that the people were so strong 
in fiivor of the prince that the time was ripe 
for revolt. In their view, only his love for the 
princess kept him fi'om heading his friends and 
striking for his royal heritage, and a lie for this 
good end seemed to the worthy Dion but a venial 
sin. Little did the politic old lord dream that it 
was his own daughter who thus posed as the 
paramour of Arethusa. 

Hardly had this disgraceful tale reached Phi- 
laster's ears than Bellario came to him with a 
message from the princess. The distressed lover 
gazed upon the seeming boy with looks of ill- 
repressed jealousy, and questioned him closely as 
to how the princess used him. Bellario answered 
with a story of kindness and affection that stirred 
the lover to new rage, and when at length, per- 
ceiving the direction in which his questions led, 
she refused to answer further, he drew his sword 
and threatened to kill her unless she would toll 
him all. 

" I am determined to see your thoughts as plain 
as I do now your face," he declared, passionately. 

" Why, so you do," answered Bellario. " The 
princess is, for aught I know, by all the gods, as 
chaste as ice. But were she foul as hell, and I 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 55 

knew it, you threats were wasted, "What I might 
come to know, as servant to her, I would not 
reveal to make my life last ages." 

"You do not know what it ig to die." 

" Do I not, my lord ? It is less than to be born ; 
a lasting sleep, a quiet resting from all jealousy, 
a thing we all pursue. I know, besides, it is but 
the giving over of a game that must be lost." 

In the end the distracted lover sheathed his 
sword, but bade Bellario leave him, and never let 
him see that hated face again. This the heart- 
broken messenger agreed to do, saying that there 
was nothing now to live for, and praying him, 
should he hear that sorrow had struck his poor, 
fond boy dead, to shed one tear for him in 
memory. 

The disgraceful story which had brought such 
distress to Philaster was destined to brina: as 
great to Arethusa. For first the king, her father, 
called upon her and bade her dismiss the boy, 
saying that foul whispers against her honor had 
been set astir. Philaster quickly followed, and 
found her in tears, &nd minghng her vows of love 
for him with such sorrow at the loss of the dear 
boy he had given her that jealousy overcame 
him, and he burst out into angiy accusations. 
Arethusa listened in distraction. Had the foul 
suspicions which her father had darkly hinted so 
soon infected her lover's heart ? Then was th^a,*e 
naught left to live for, and death would be a Iplest 
relief. 



56 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 

" Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead !" 
she cried, when he had withdrawn in a hot pas- 
sion. " In what way have I deserved this ? Make 
my breast transparent as pure crystal, that the 
world, jealous of my fair fame, may see the foul- 
est thought my heart possesses. Where shall a 
woman turn her eyes to find man's constancy ?" 

Tiie scene of our story now shifts from the 
palace to the forest. The king, wishing to do all 
honor to his princely visitor, had arranged a hunt- 
ing party, and rode to the neighboring woodlands 
with Pharamond and his lords. Arethusa, at his 
request, joined the party, though with secret 
thouo-hts of her own. For her heart was so 
bleedins: with the wounds it had received that 
she had resolved to flee from men, and seek peace 
and shelter from human faithlessness under the 
forest shades. 

By chance, Bellario and Philaster had sought 
the same refuge in their misery. Thus these 
three were soon wandering desolately under the 
green dome of leaves, and with a common sorrow, 
— for Arethusa had separated herself from the 
hunting party, and sought a distant covert where 
she might weep unseen. 

The princess was soon missed, and, fearing some 
dread accident, the whole train of huntsmen set 
themselves in eager search of her, for the king 
was so distracted at her loss that be bitterly 
accused his courtiers of lack of vigilance in 
guarding his daughter. 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 57 

Fortune, however, had prepared another end- 
ing for this strange adventure. Philaster, wan- 
dering wofully through the forest paths, his heart 
still torn with the pangs of jealousy, chanced to 
meet Bellario, who was suffering so severely from 
cold and hunger that she was forced to beg relief 
from her late master. 

"Is it you?" he harshly cried. "Begone, in- 
grate ! Go sell those fine clothes she has dressed 
you in and feed yourself with them." 

" Alas, my lord, I can get nothing for them," 
pleaded Bellario. " The sill}^ country-people think 
it would be treason to touch such gay attire." 

" Think you to cozen me again ? Tell me which 
way you will take, that I may shun you ? This 
way, or that way ?" 

"Any way will serve, so it but leads to my 
grave," wept Bellario, sadly taking the first path 
that offered, while Philaster angrily took another. 

Yet, by love's direction, it happened that their 
paths ran parallel, both ending in that distant 
part of the forest where Arethusa sat moaning, 
worn out with her unaccustomed wanderings. 

Bellario first espied her, as she sat pallid and 
faint with fatigue on a green woodland bank. 
But hardly had the seeming boy, with earnest 
appeal, called back the exhausted lady to life and 
memory, than Philaster entered and saw her 
busied in pitying cares about his lost love. The 
flames of jealous fury leaped again in his heart 
on seeing this. How had they met ? Could this 



58 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

be chance, or was it an assignation ? On them 
both the storm of his anger burst, till he became 
so frenzied that he drew his sword and bade 
Arethusa strike him dead. When she refused to 
do this, he bade Bellario kill him ; and when the 
distressed page drew back in horror, he bade him 
begone and trouble no more those to whom he 
had brought such woe. 

" Kill me," he repeated to Arethusa, after 
Bellario had fled in terror. " Earth cannot bear 
us both at once. One of us must die here." 

" Let it be me, then. I shall have peace in 
death." 

" Then guide my feeble hand, ye gods of honor, 
for justice bids me strike. Are you at jieace?" 

" With heaven and earth." 

" May they divide thy soul and body." 

Fortunately, a countryman, eager to see the 
royal party at the chase, had sought the forest, 
and came upon the lovers just as Philaster, mad 
with jealous rage, had raised his hand to strike. 
He caught the arm of the frenzied prince in time 
to save the lady from death, though she fell 
wounded. 

A fight ensued between Philaster and the 
countryman, who attacked him with such fury as 
to break down his guard and wound him. Phi- 
laster, indeed, was pressed so closely that, unable 
longer to defend himself, ho was forced to fly, 
leaving his assailant in possession of the field. 

He had hardly gone when Pharamond, Dion, 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDINa. 59 

and others of the hunting party appeared, in 
search of the lost princess. To their sui-prise and 
anger they saw her bleeding before them, and the 
countryman with blood on his sword's point. 
The latter, however, quickly declared that he 
had fought to save, not to hurt her, and that the 
assailant had escaped. As Arethusa confirmed 
this, Pharamond bade the woodmen present to 
conduct the wounded princess to the king, while 
he and the others set out in search of her assailant. 

" By this hand, if I find the villain," declared 
Pharamond, boastfully, " I'll not leave a piece of 
him bigger than a nut, and bring him all in my 
hat." 

"Nay, if you find him, bring him to me," 
asked Arethusa, in fear for her lover. " Leave me 
to study a punishment great as his fault." 

"I will." 

" But swear." 

" By all my love, I will." 

Meanwhile Bellario, after leaving the lovers, 
had wandered wearily onward, and at length, 
overcome with fatigue and hunger, had lain down 
and fallen asleep in a nook of the forest. By the 
same fortune that had hitherto guided their steps, 
Philaster, in his flight, followed the same path, 
bleeding as he went, and at length was forced to 
halt near where Bellario lay in deep slumber. 

" I have done ill ; my conscience calls me false, 
to strike at her who would not strike at me," 
he declared, remorsefully. " And while I fought 



60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

she surely breathed a prayer to the gods to guard 
me. She may be abused, and I a loathed villain. 
Ah! who lies here? Bellaino, and sleeping? If 
ho be guilty, justice is at fault that his sleep 
should be so sound, and mine, whom he has 
wronged, so broken." 

He paused and listened. The distant cries of 
the pursuing party came to his ears, ringing far 
through the green forest aisles. 

" Hark ! I am pursued. They have no mark 
to know me but my wounds. If she be true she 
will not breathe my name ; if false, let mischief 
light on all the world at once. Swoi'd, print my 
wounds upon this sleeping boy, and let him stand 
for me. I have none mortal, and will not hurt 
him deeply." 

Bellario sprang up as the keen sword pierced 
his flesh ; then fell again with a cry more of hope 
than fear. 

" Death, I hope, has come !" he cried. "Again, 
for pity's sake ! strike deeper now !" 

"No, Bellario; take your revenge," cried Phi- 
laster, full of sudden remorse. " Here is he that 
struck you. This luckless hand wounded the 
princess ; strike me as I did you, and tell my fol- 
lowers you got these hurts in staying me. Say 
what you will ; I'll second it." 

Bellario would by no means obey this dread 
command, and so earnestly bade his loved master 
to conceal himself that he at length consented. 
When Pharamond and the others entered, track- 



philaster; or, love lies bleeding. 61 

ing the fugitive by his blood, they saw only 
Bellario, who lay bleeding upon the earth. 

The seeming boy claimed at first to have been 
wounded by beasts, but, when they taxed him 
closely, made a pretended confession that he had 
wounded the princess, moved by anger at her for 
having dismissed him from her train. As they 
were about to lead him off, with threats of tort- 
ure, Philastei', who had heard all this in his 
covert, broke forth and bade them halt. The 
self-abnegation of Bellario had at length con- 
vinced the jealous lover that his suspicions were 
false and his lady was true, and he now loudly 
asserted his own guilt and the innocence of the 
devoted boy. 

A contest ensued between the two as to who 
had really wounded the princess, in the midst of 
which the king entered with his daughter and 
guards. 

" Is the villain taken ?" he demanded. 

"There are two here that confess the deed," 
said Phararaond. 

" The fellow who fought with him will point 
out the true one," answered the king. 

"Ah me! I fear he will," sighed Arethusa. 

"Do you not know him, daughter?" 

" No. If it was Philaster he was disguised." 

" I was so, indeed — in shameful jealousy and 
foul suspicion," cried Philaster. " It was I that 
struck the princess. Do with me what you will." 

" Ambitious fool !" answered the king, angrily. 

6 



62 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" You have laid a train for your own life. Bear 
him to prison." 

" Leave him to me, dear father," pleaded Are- 
thusa. " Leave both of them. They laid a plot 
together to take my harmless life. Let me ap- 
point their punishment." 

" As you will, daughter ; take them, with a 
guard. Come, princely Pharamond ; this business 
past, we may go on to your intended marriage." 

The king's concession to his daughter was but 
in seeming, as was her proposed revenge. He 
feared Philaster too much to let him live, now 
that he had a fair excuse to put him to death, 
and hardly were they back in the city than he 
ordered the immediate execution of the prisoner. 

Fortunately for Philaster, this purpose of the 
king was suspected by his friends, and Dion and 
others hastened to spread the news through 
the city, with the design of rousing a revolt in 
favor of the threatened prince. As for Arethusa, 
when the command came to her from her father 
to bring out to his death the prisoner who had 
been committed to her hands, her heart was like 
to break. She hastened to the prison with BelJa- 
rio, and there vowed that if her soul's lord died 
she would not live to weep for him. Bellario 
repeated the same vow, and the three sought the 
presence of the king, wearing wedding robes and 
garlands. The angry monarch looked at them in 
surprise. 

"What masque is this?" he haughtily asked. 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 63 

"The masque of truth," answered Bellario. 
" The god that sings his holy numbers over mar- 
riage vows has knit these noble hearts, and here 
they stand your children, mighty king." 

" What mean you, boy ?" 

" Sir, if you love plain truth, for there's no 
masquing in it," broke in Arethusa, " this gentle- 
man, the prisoner you gave me, has become my 
keeper. You see him here my husband." 

" Your husband !" exclaimed the kins;, in amaze- 
ment and rage. " No masque, you say ? Call in 
the captain of the citadel ; there you shall keep 
your wedding. Blood shall put out your mar- 
riage torches, woman — no more my daughter ; for 
here I shake all title off of father." 

"I repent not," answered Arethusa. "Death 
has for me no ^ierror, so long as Pharamond is not 
my headsman." 

"Sir, let me speak," exclaimed Philaster. "If 
you aim at the dear life of this sweet innocent, 
you are a tyrant and a savage monster ; your 
memory shall be as foul behind you, as you are, 
living; all your better deeds shall be in water 
writ, but this in marble; no chronicle but shall 
speak shame of you, no monument be able to 
cover this base murder. If you have a soul, 
save her and be saved. For myself, I have so 
long expected this glad hour, it is a joy to die." 

He was interrupted by the hasty entrance of a 
messenger, who cried, — 

" The king ! "Where is the king ? The prince 



64^ TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Pharamond has been taken prisoner by the cit- 
izens, and is in mortal dangei-." 

"Arm! arm!" cried a second messenger, enter- 
ing as hastily. " The whole city is in mutiny, 
led by an angry gray ruffian, who swears he will 
rescue the lord Philaster." 

"Away with these prisoners to the citadel!" 
cried the king. " See they are kept safely. Leave 
it to me to cope with these burghers." 

He did not find it so easy to cope with the 
burghers. On hearing, through Dion and others, 
of the danger to their beloved Philaster, the 
citizens had risen in a body, and, meeting with 
Pharamond, who had gone out to see the city, 
they had seized him and haled him with them to 
the palace gates, where they threatened to rend 
him limb from limb if Philaster was not set free. 

So hot and threatening was their rebellious 
spirit that the king's valor quickly turned to fear. 
They threw dirt at him, drowned his voice with 
yells of " tyrant !" and demanded Philaster, none 
but Philaster. 

"What they will do with the poor prince I 
know not," cx-ied the terrified king. "Eun, some 
one, and bring the lord Philaster. Speak him 
fair; call him prince; treat him with all courtesy. 
Confound them, how they swarm !" 

Philaster had not yet been taken from the 
palace, and was soon brought to the presence of 
the frightened monarch, who was ready to fall on 
his knees before him. 



philaster; or, love lies bleeding. 65 

" Oh, worthy sir, forgive me !" he cried, trem- 
bling. " I have wronged you. Take her you love, 
and with her my repentance and your father's 
throne. Only calm this torrent of rebellion, and, 
by the gods, I swear to do you justice !" 

"Mighty sir, you fill me with new life," an- 
swered Philaster. " Leave me to stand the shock 
of this mad sea-breach, which I will either turn 
or perish with it." 

Philaster well knew that he was in no danger 
from the rebels. The very sight of his face 
brought from them glad shouts of " Long live 
Philaster! the brave prince Philaster!" and on 
his assurance of his safety they delivered to him 
the captive prince, and rolled back in retreating 
waves to the taverns, to spend in drink the gold 
he had lavished on them. 

"Thou art the king of courtesy," cried their 
captain. "Fall oif again, my sweet youths. We 
will have music, and the red grape shall make us 
dance. A fig for this pewter king that dares to 
threaten our brave prince Philaster." 

Philaster returned with Pharamond to the 
palace, where the king met him with tears of joy, 
bidding him take his daughter for his wedded 
wife, and with her the crown of his father's 
kingdom. But the woes of the lovers were not 
yet ended. Megra, the courtesan, who had caused 
all their troubles, now repeated her foul accusa- 
tion, with such show of knowledge that the king 
turned in doubt to Philaster. 
Vol. l.—e 6* 



66 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" I must request of you one favor," he asked. 
" And this I bid you swear to." 

" By the powers above, I swear," answered 
Philaster, " if it be no one's death." 

" Then bear that boy to torture. I must have 
the truth of this vile charge. My daughter's 
fame shall not rest under this load of infamy." 

" Call back your words, sir. Let me sacrifice 
myself in proof of Arethusa's virtue." 

He drew his sword and offered to kill himself, 
but was checked by Arethusa, who caught his 
hand in both her own. 

" To the torture with that boy !" cried the king. 

"Oh, kill me, gentlemen!" exclaimed Bellario. 

" No, but we'll have the truth from you." 

"The truth! Oh, sirs, would you make me 
break a vow to the gods ?" 

" Yes, ten vows, but that we have the truth." 

"Then may the just gods forgive me, since I 
must speak, or have my secret known through 
torture. Great sir, this lady lies vilely. Your 
daughter is pure as new-fallen snow ; and to prove 
it, know — I am a woman." 

" A woman !" cried all present. 

" Yes, sire, by name Euphrasia, and this my 
father." She laid her hand on old Dion's shoulder. 

"Euphrasia! By all the gods, 'tis she!" cried 
Dion, looking keenly in her face. " What means 
this, you baggage? Is this your pilgrimage ?" 

"Love bade me do it. Love for Philaster." 

"Seize that woman!" cried the king, pointing 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 67 

to Megra. " It is her lying tongue has done all 
this. To death with her." 

'* Not so, my royal father," answered Philaster. 
" I would not have my happiness tarnished by 
taking revenge, even on that base wretch. Set 
her free, but banish her from your kingdom." 

" Be it so," rejoined the king. " But let her not 
show her face again in Calabria. You, Phara- 
mond, shall have free passage, and a conduct home 
worthy your high descent. As for this disguised 
maiden, — but tell me your story, Bellario. How 
came this masquerade ?" 

With blushing cheeks, the discovered maiden 
told what the reader already knows, how she had, 
from love of Philaster, assumed a disguise, and 
thrown herself in his way, that she might at least 
be near him and serve him as a page. 

"To whom shall we marry you?" asked the 
king. " Search out your mate ; be it the highest 
in our kingdom, I will pay your dowry." 

" I shall never marry," she sadly answered. " I 
live only to serve the princess." 

" Which you freely shall," remarked Arethusa. 
" Fear not my jealousy, though you love my lord 
as truly as I can." 

"Join your hands, my children," said the king 
to Philaster and Arethusa. "My blessing be 
yours. Enjoy your love, and after me my king- 
dom. Let princes learn by this to rule the 
passions of their blood ; for what God wills can 
never be withstood." 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 

BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 



[Philip Massinger, who was born at Salisbury 
in 1583, and educated at Oxford, formed one of 
the most skilful of that active circle of play- 
wrights who were contemporary with Shake- 
speare. We first hear of him as a dramatic au- 
thor in 1614, and he continued to produce plays 
actively till his death, in 1639, largely in collabo- 
ration with other authors, and particularly with 
John Fletcher. His most masterly comedies are 
" A New Way to Pay Old Debts," and " The City 
Madam," the former of which we treat, as it is 
the sole production of Shakespeare's contempo- 
raries which still holds the stage. This is due 
to the fine dramatic opportunities offered by the 
character of Sir Giles Overreach. 

These plays lack warmth and geniality, but as 
satirical studies they possess the strength without 
the heaviness of Ben Jonson. Massinger was a 
skilled and careful playwright, and though not 
powerful from a literary point of view, was a 
master of his art, few writers surpassing him in 
general dramatic excellence. Some of his plays, 
as Coleridge says, are as interesting as novels.] 
68 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 69 

The parish ia which Sir Giles Overreach, a 
grasping English baronet of the olden time, re- 
sided was sadly the worse for his presence. The 
thriftless and the thrifty had alike been made the 
victims of his avarice, and many a widow and 
orphan mourned in poverty his soulless greed and 
injustice. By taking unfair advantage of the 
misfortunes and follies of his neighbors, he had 
added to his estate until it spread over miles of 
territory, every foot of which had been watered 
by the tears of those whom he had ruined. In- 
dustry and economy were no safeguards against 
his base practices. " I must have all men sellers 
and I the only purchaser," he said, and when his 
neighbor, Mr. Frugal, whose land lay in the midst 
of his estate, and whose economy kept him from 
debt, refused to sell or exchange. Sir Giles took 
the most unjust means to rob him of his property. 
Buying a cottage near his manor, he laid plans to 
have men break down his fences, ride over his 
grain, injure his cattle, and set fire to his barns, 
hoping thus to draw him into lawsuits and to 
beggar him by costs. Two or three years of such 
courses would force Frugal to sell his lands, which 
Sir Giles stood ready to buy at a sacrifice, and 
add to his overgrown estate. 

Thus by methods fair and foul the villanous 
baronet had spread ruin far and wide, and threat- 
ened, if he lived, to bring half the county within 
his ill-gotten manor. Among those whom he had 
ruined was his own nephew, Frank Wellborn, a 



70 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

young gentleman of good estate, whose spend- 
thrift habits had made him an easy prey to his 
vulture-like uncle. Young Wellborn had been a 
close friend to a Mr. Allworth, and had aided 
him greatly in money difficulties which were due 
to the crafty practices of Sir Giles. In the end 
Allworth saved himself from ruin by marrying a 
rich heiress of the vicinity. He died a few years 
afterwards, leaving his son by a former marriage 
to the care of his loving Avidow. When this boy 
was well grown Lady Allworth placed him as page 
to Lord Lovell, a worthy nobleman of her ac- 
quaintance. But before this time the youth had 
fallen in love with Margaret, the only child of Sir 
Giles Overreach, who warmly returned his affec- 
tion. Their boy and girl love had to be kept a close 
secret from Margaret's avaricious father, who 
hoped to add to his importance by marrying his 
beautiful daughter to Lord Lovell, from whom 
he expected a visit. 

As for the dissolute Wellborn, he had gone 
steadily on his downward career till, at the time 
our story opens, he was in a state of hopeless 
poverty. His estate had vanished, his money was 
spent, his clothes were little better than rags, and 
from being a gentleman of wealth, he had become 
almost a penniless tramp, discarded bj^ the uncle 
who had robbed him, looked upon with scorn and 
disgust by his former equals, and treated with con- 
tempt and contumely by many who had once been 
far below him in the social scale. 



A NEW WAY TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 71 

The ill respect with which the common people 
treated this ruined spendthrift was in part due to 
his uncle, who, having robbed him of his wealth, 
now wished to relieve his eyes from the unpleasant 
sight of his ragged person. He therefore ordered 
his parasite, Marrall, to use all means to drive his 
nephew to despair. The tapster who had given 
him shelter was bidden to turn him out of doors. 
The tenants of Sir Griles were forbidden to give 
him so much aid as a crust of mouldy bread, his 
cruel uncle hoping that he might die of cold and 
hunger. Finally, at a loss how to get rid of this 
living witness to his ill deeds, the baronet bade 
Marrall to counsel his starving nephew that it was 
better to steal than beg. " Do anything to work 
him to despair," he said, *' and if I can prove that 
he has but robbed a hen-roost, not all the world 
shall save him from the gallows." 

Sir Giles reckoned a little hastily in hoping thus 
easily to dispose of Frank Wellborn. In truth, 
events were now ripening which were destined to 
lead to his own ruin, and bring to an end his long 
career of greed and oppression. Wellborn, disso- 
lute as he had been, and much as his mad course 
had turned all worthy people against him, was 
not a fool, and when he saw that his crafty uncle 
was seeking his final ruin, he devised a shrewd 
scheme to get the better of the greedy villain, 
and even force him to open his own swollen 
coifers in his behalf. 

Tapwell, the tavern-keeper, and Froth, his wife, 



72 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

lost no time in obeying the orders sent secretly to 
them by their rich landlord. They refused further 
food and drink to their late good customer, and 
when he indignantly threatened them, they spoke 
of sending for the constable if he should but lift 
his hand against them. 

"Dare you talk thus, you unthankful villain?" 
demanded Wellborn of the tapster. "Are not 
your house, and all you have, my gifts?" 

"I find it not in chalk," was the insolent an- 
swer. " Timothy Tapwell keeps no other regis- 
ter." 

" Am not I he whose visits fed and clothed you ? 
Were j^ou not born on my father's land, and proud 
to be a drudge in his house ?" 

"What I was matters not; what you are is 
apparent," and Tapwell proceeded to describe the 
course of Wellborn's profligacy and downfall, 
until his angry benefactor could bear it no 
longer, and used his fists and feet on the insulting 
tapster with such effect that only the entrance of 
young Allworth saved him from broken bones. 

" Hold, Frank !" cried Allworth. " Such scum 
as these are not worth your anger." 

" Then let them vanish, creeping on their hands 
and knees," cried Wellborn, furiously. " If they 
dare refuse or grumble, I'll beat them to a jelly." 

The tapster and his wife were glad enough to 
escape, even on such humiliating terms, and crept 
humbly away from their incensed customer, leav- 
ing him master of the field. After they had gone, 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 73 

a conversation began between the two friends, the 
subject of their colloquy being the widow All- 
worth. 

Young Allworth remarked that she was still 
a deep mourner for her late husband, and that, 
though she had many suitors, she had shown no 
favor to any of them. As for himself, she had 
treated him so kindly and generously as to win 
his deepest love. Here Wellborn interrupted him, 
telling him he well knew that he had not given 
all his love to his step-mother, but had saved a 
generous portion of it for Margaret, the daughter 
of Cormorant Overreach. He earnestly advised 
him to dismiss from his mind all hope of winning 
the young lady, and to plant his affections in some 
more hopeful soil. 

*' Can you imagine," he said, " that Sir Giles 
Overreach, who to make her great in swelling 
titles would cut his neighbor's throat, will ever 
consent to yield her to you? Give over such 
wild hopes, and seek some safer flame." 

To this advice, however, the young lover would 
not listen. In his turn he advised his friend 
to consider the desperate plight he was himself 
in, and offered him a part of his small allowance 
to help him in this strait. 

" Money from you !" cried Wellborn. " No, my 
lad. Though I am turned out of my alehouse, 
dressed in rags, and know not where to eat, drink, 
or sleep, I will not accept your charity, much as 
I thank you for the offer. Since in my madness 
D 7 



74 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

I have broken my estate, in my right wits I'll 
mend it without aid from another; or at the 
worst, will die and be forgotten." 

The scheme which Wellborn had devised to 
better his fortunes, of which we have above 
spoken, was likely to prove a difficult one to carry 
into effect. It depended on the co-operation of 
Lady Allworth, whose prudent course of life 
would certainly make her ill disposed to enter 
into alliance with a profligate spendthrift. In 
fact, when her step-son returned home from his 
conversation with Wellborn, she warned him 
against holding any future intercourse with the 
ruined prodigal. 

" Beware ill company," she advised him. " From 
one man in particular I warn you, that dissolute 
Wellborn. Not because he is poor, for that rather 
claims your pity ; but because he is debauched, 
and fallen into vicious courses. Your father loved 
him, it is true ; but had he lived to see him as he 
is he would have cast him off, as you must do." 

*' Dear mother, trust me to obey all your com- 
mands," answered the youth, dutifully. 

Yet, in despite of this wise and prudent advice, 
the day was not over before Lady Allworth had 
forgiven Wellborn his profligacy, and admitted 
him to an intimacy far greater than that against 
which she had warned her son. The motive for 
this sudden change of opinion we have next to 
describe. 

It was but an hour or two after Wellborn's 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 75 

conversation with his young friend, when he 
entered Lady All worth's house, seeking an inter- 
view with that lady. He was destined to meet 
with a series of insults, hard for his hot blood to 
bear. The first person he met was his uncle, Sir 
Giles, who was one of Lady Allworth's suitors, 
but not a favored one. Angry at being refused 
admittance to the lady, he turned on his nephew 
with snarling fury, crying out: "Avaunt, beg- 
gar ! if ever you presume to own me more, I'll have 
you caged and whipped!" With these words he 
stalked furiously away. 

The servants of Lady A 11 worth followed this 
example, greeting the visitor with insult; and 
even j'oung Allworth, who happened to enter the 
hall, felt obliged to obey his mother's command, 
and turned in confused silence away from his late 
friend. 

" This grows better and better," cried Wellborn, 
"jffe drops my acquaintance also. Come, then, 
you surly dogs, here I am ; who will put me 
out?" 

At this moment Lady Allworth entered, and 
looked with surprise on the scene before her. 

" What means this ?" she asked. \ 

" Madam, I desire some words with you," said 
Wellborn,with a courtesy that contrasted sti'angely 
with his ill attire. " I have met with but ragged 
entertainment from your grooms ; but hope from 
yourself to receive usage more fitting to him who 
was your husband's friend." 



76 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" I am amazed at your rudeness in forcing your- 
self into my house," answered Lady Allworth, 
severely. " Do you think that I, who since my 
husband's death have denied my presence to the 
best men of this country, can fall so low as to 
exchange words with you ? Forbear my house, 
thou son of infamy I Force me not to take meas- 
ures to make you keep a respectful distance from 
me." 

" Scorn me not, good lady," answered Wellborn, 
quietly. " Hear me awhile, at least. You can 
but grant that the blood which runs in my arm 
is as noble as that which fills your veins. Your 
jewels and rich attire, and the flattery of your 
servants, are no virtues in you ; nor are these rags 
and my poverty vices in me. Your fame is fairer 
far than mine, it is true, and in nothing greater 
than in the pious sorrow you have shown for your 
late noble husband." 

Lady Allworth started, and tears came into 
her eyes at these words. 

"Have you more to say?" she asked more 
gently. 

" Once, madam, your husband was almost as 
low in his fortunes as I am. Wants, debts, and 
quarrels lay heavy on him. Think it not a boast 
in me when I say that I relieved him, and in his 
quarrels seconded his sword with mine. When 
he was sunk in men's opinions and in his own 
hopes, it was I that took him by the hand and sot 
him upright." 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 77 

" I have heard of this, and regret that I spoke 
so harshly, Mr. Wellborn," answered the lady. 

" For his sake, in that I was his friend, I pray 
you not to contemn me." 

" I beg pardon for what is past, and will redeem 
it, — Steward, give this gentleman a hundred 
pounds." 

" On no terms, madam ! Think you I am here 
for that ? I will not beg or borrow sixpence of 
you. Yet I have a suit to make, — may we speak 
apart ?" 

Lady Allworth, touched despite herself by her 
vi8itoi''s words and manner, led the way to a place 
out of hearing of the servants, where an earnest 
whispered conversation took place between her 
and Wellborn. 

" Your request is granted," she said at length. 
" I cannot better repay your services to my hus- 
band. Is there nothing more ?" 

"Nothing, unless you please to charge your 
servants to waste some show of respect on me," 

This request she obeyed, and parted from her 
shabby guest with much show of amity. 

The ascreement which Frank Wellborn had 
made with Lady Allworth was one that was 
destined to create much surprise. Since her hus- 
band's death she had worn deep mourning and 
kept in strict seclusion, refusing to see the various 
gentlemen who called upon her with purpose to 
sue for her hand and estate. Yet she had now 
agreed, out of gratitude for Wellborn's aifection 

7* 



78 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

for and aid to her deeply-mourned husband, to 
give up her seclusion in favor of a houseless and 
ragged profligate, to change her mourning I'obes 
for gay attire, and in all seeming to accept this 
lately despised vagabond for her lover. Only an 
extreme feeling of gratitude could have produced 
such a change, yet Lady Allworth, having once 
agreed to it, was ready to carry out her promise 
to the full, whatever the neighboring gentry might 
think of her conduct. 

The cunningl^'-devised scheme of the two con- 
spirators was first played upon Marrall, Sir Giles's 
parasite. This time-serving wretch had, as already 
stated, been ordered by Sir Giles to counsel Well- 
born to robbery, his crafty uncle hoping thus to 
bring him within the grasp of the severe laws of 
that period. Marrall, however, found his hoped- 
for victim in no humor to be hung for theft. 

"Thanks for your generous advice." he said; 
" I am not ready to take it ; but, as you are so 
kind, I will be kinder, and invite you to dine with 
me." 

" Under what hedge, I pray j'ou ? Or at whose 
cost ? What footpads are your hosts ?" was 
Marrall's scornful demand. 

" We shall dine at the house of a gallant lady, 
my worthy sir ; and not in her kitchen, but with 
herself as hostess." 

"Ah! with the Lady of the Lake, or the queen 
of fairies ? It must be an enchanted dinner you 
invite me to," 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 79 

"What think you of Lady Allworth, knave?" 

" I think your brain is cracked, beyond hope." 

" Wait till you see with what respect I am 
entertained." 

" With choice of dog-whips, no doubt. What, 
youl in this attire !" and he looked with high dis- 
dain on Wellborn's much-frayed clothing. " Do 
you ever hope to pass her doorkeeper?" 

" Come ; trust your own eyes, if you trust not 
my words. It is not far, and doubtless dinner is 
ready to serve." 

A few minutes brought them to Lady Allworth's 
door. Wellborn knocked boldly, while Marrall, 
who knew well the contempt which the gentry 
of the neighborhood felt for his profligate com- 
panion, expected to see him driven from the door 
with scorn. What then was his surprise to find 
the servants meet him with low bows, as an 
honored guest, while young Allworth, who was 
present, begged pardon for his recent abruptness, 
and offered his best services. 

"I am glad you are come," said the butler. 
" Until I know your pleasure I cannot serve up 
my lady's dinner." 

" His pleasure !" exclaimed Marrall to himself. 
" Is this some vision, or are these men all mad ?" 

" I have grouse and quail," continued the butler, 
" or turkey if you prefer. My lady bade me ask 
you what sauce is best to your taste." 

" Good Lord deliver us !" groaned the perplexed 
parasite. " Sauce to his taste ! Why, to my cer- 



80 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

tain knowledge, for a twelvemonth he has had no 
better diet than cheese-parings on week-days and 
brown bread on Sundays." 

"Wellborn, with a sly smile at the astonishment 
of his companion, proceeded to state his preference 
as to sauces, after which the butler withdrew with 
an humble bow. 

" What think you of the hedge we shall dine 
under?" queried Wellborn. 

"Say no more, sir, say no more, unless you 
would drive me quite out of my wits." 

Marrall was not yet at the end of his surprises. 
Lady Allworth met her guest with the formal 
kiss which was then the fashion among equals, 
and gave him permission to take a second salute 
from her lips, as due to such a friend. Wellborn 
begged her instead to salute his companion, and, 
on the lady's showing a willingness to comply, 
the low-born wretch was so overcome that he fell 
on his face to the floor and begged the honor of 
kissing her foot. 

"Nay, rise, sir," said the hostess. "Since you 
are so humble, I'll exalt you. You shall dine with 
me to-day." 

" At your table ? I am scarce good enough to 
sit with your steward." 

" You are too modest ; I will not be denied," 
answei'ed the lady, graciously. 

The dinner was a peculiar one. Marrall, who 
had never before sat at a lady's table, demeaned 
himself so awkwardly in his new dignity that he 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 81 

became a laughing-stock to the servants. When 
the lady drank to him, at Wellborn's suggestion, 
Marrall seized a dish in response, and pledged 
her in whitebroth. And when the steward 
brought him wine, he rose from his chaii', and 
with an obsequious bow, humbly thanked his 
worship. 

At the end of the dinner, indeed, the lady, on 
leaving the table, found her servants so overcome 
with laughter that she sternly reproved them, 
bidding them remember that whoever she deemed 
worthy to sit at her table was no subject for their 
mirth. Then to Wellborn she said, " Good-day, 
dear sir. Bear in mind that to mo you are ever 
welcome, as to a house that is your own." 

When they were fairly out of the house the 
pettifogging parasite was ready to fall down and 
worship his companion. He walked with his hat 
off, as one too humble to remain covered in the 
presence of "Your Worship," as he called him, 
and in the end pressed upon him a present of 
twenty pounds, that he might provide himself 
with better clothes. 

" Come, come, I'll not forget you, friend Mar- 
rall," said Wellborn, laughingly. " When we are 
married, and my ladj^'s estate is mine, it may be 
that you shall profit by it. And now, good-day. 
I hope you liked my hedge-side dining-hall." 

Wellborn walked away, leaving his companion 
lost in wonder. 

" To think of it I" he stammered. " I and Sir 
Vol. I.-/ 



82 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Giles both so out in our calculations of this man's 
fortune I Well, well, Master Wellborn, you are a 
goose ready to be plucked again. Trust me to 
help myself to a fair share of your feathers." 

As he stood lost in a deep soliloquy, Sir Giles 
appeared and questioned him as to how he had 
succeeded in his plot to make a thief of Well- 
born. Marrall told him the surprising story of 
what had happened, a narrative which threw 
Sir Giles into a furious passion. He called his 
parasite a dolt and liar, and told him that he had 
been cheated by a beggar's plot, worked by ser- 
vants and chambermaids. When Marrall went 
on to say that he had offered Wellborn twenty 
pounds in money and his own horse to ride on, 
the angry baronet became so incensed that he 
knocked him down. 

" Take that to drive the lying spirit out of you," 
he exclaimed. 

'• Oh, oh, sir, it is gone ! — I saw no lady, on my 
honor." 

" Get up, then. Here's a crown to pay for my 

blow." 

" I must yet suffer. But my time may come," 
muttered Marrall, in suppressed rage. 

" What's that, sirrah ! Do you grumble ?" 

" No, sir ! Oh, no. Sir Giles, I am your very 
humble servant." 

At the time these events were taking place, a 
gentleman of much importance to our story was 
approaching that locality. This was Lord Lovell, 



A NEW WAT TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 83 

who had ridden thither to pay his promised visit 
to Sir Giles, Lady Allworth, and others of his 
friends. As he approached the residence of his 
host, he conversed earnestly with Allworth, who 
had joined him in a state of deep distress, for he 
knew well the purpose of Sir Giles's invitation, 
and feared that the charms of Margaret must 
win the love of his noble master. Lord Lovell 
sought to reassure him, declaring that he had not 
come thither to rob him of his love, and that, 
however great might be the temptation offered 
by Margaret's beauty and her father's wealth, he 
should consider his own honor first of all. He 
bade Allworth free himself from jealous fears, 
and trust him that all would be well in the end. 

It would by no means have pleased Sir Giles to 
hear this. Now that he had a superabundance 
of wealth, his ambition was set upon rank, and 
he would have given his soul to be called noble, 
or even to be able to greet Margaret as " My 
Honorable daughter," and to stand bareheaded 
before her until she should say, " Father, you 
forget yourself." 

Therefore, when news of Lord Lovell's coming 
was brought him, he gave orders to make a dis- 
play of all the magnificence his house could afford. 
No plate of less value than pure gold was to be 
shown, the choicest linens were to be laid out, 
and precious perfumes spread through the rooms. 
As to the entertainment, he left this in the hands 
of his creature, Justice Greedy, a fellow who, to 



84 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

feast daily at a full table, would have sent half 
the parish to prison. 

While the servants were busied in getting the 
house in order for the noble guest, and Greedy 
was giving his orders in the kitchen, Sir Giles 
sent for Margaret, told her of his purposes, and 
bade her use all her charms to win the love of 
the expected visitor. In fact, so far did he go in 
his instructions, that he even counselled her to 
yield herself to Lovell as his mistress, declaring 
that he would force him to heal her wounded 
honor by marriage. 

Margaret, deeply hurt by her father's words, 
left the room in tears, just as Lord Lovell entered 
in company with his page. The first greeting 
had hardly been exchanged when the visitor, 
greatly to Sir Giles's pleasure, asked to be in- 
troduced to his fair daughter. When Margaret 
entered, in response to her father's command. 
Lord Lovell greeted her with such a show of 
respect, and led her aside into so close a conver- 
sation, that two persons were strongly affected, 
— her father with delight, and Allworth with 
despair. 

"Close at it! whispering! this is excellent!" 
said Sir Giles to himself. " The girl has come to 
her senses." He drew closer, seeking to over- 
hear their conversation, but was interrupted by 
Justice Greedy, who ran in with loud complaints 
that the cook had refused to roast the fawn with 
a Norfolk dumpling in its belly, and to dish up 



A NEW WAY TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 85 

the woodcock with toast and butter ; all of which 
Greedy held to be delinquencies next to high 
treason. 

By the time Sir Giles had quieted his greedy 
friend, Lord Lovell and Margaret had separated. 
They had in the interval matured a plan which 
he himself would have deemed worse than high 
treason, for the noble lord had been looking after 
the interests of his page, and laying a plot by 
which All worth might win his lady-love. 

" How does your lordship find her ?" asked Sir 
Giles, with a low reverence. 

"Modest and shy, my dear sir," answered 
Lovell. " I must feel my way to her affections 
with a love-letter or two, which, with your good 
will, my page shall deliver." 

" With all my heart, sir. Your hand, good 
Master All worth ; my house is ever open to you." 

"It was shut till now," muttered Allworth, 
aside. 

They were at this moment interrupted — much 
to the torment of Justice Greedy, who feared 
that the dinner would be spoiled — by the sound 
of a coach, and the next minute the door was 
thrown open and Lady Allworth entered, es- 
corted by Wellborn. At this surprising appari- 
tion Sir Giles stood like one frozen to stone, while 
Marrall whispered in his ear : " Am I a dolt ? 
Has the spirit of lies entered me ?" 

Heedless of the sensation her entrance had 
occasioned, the lady kissed Margaret, chided 

8 



86 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Lord Lovell pleasantly for not first stopping at 
her house, greeted Sir Giles, and asked Marrall 
with a smile why he dined no more with her. 

Wellborn had made no change in his attire, 
being still in his ragged doublet, but Lady All- 
worth had laid aside her mourning dress for rich 
and costly robes, and the contrast was striking 
between them as she now turned and presented 
him to the company. 

"This gentleman," she said, "however coarse 
without, is fine and fair within, and may, before 
many days, rank himself with some that have 
contemned him. Sir Giles Overreach, if I am 
welcome, he must be so too." 

" My dear nephew," said Sir Giles, with a con- 
cealed grimace, "you have, in faith, been too long 
a stranger. Let it be mended, I pray you 
heartily." 

After some further conversation, in which Sir 
Giles failed to recover from his astonishment, 
dinner was announced, and the guests filed out. 
Wellborn escorting Lady AUworth at her own 
request. 

During the meal the astounded Sir Giles 
watched her closely, and saw in her manner so 
many signs of loving infatuation for her ragged 
escort that he could no longer sit in silence, but 
left the room in haste before his guests had lisen 
from the table. Marrall followed him. 

" Sir," he said, " the whole board is troubled at 
your rising." 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 87 

" No matter ; I'll excuse it. Marrall, watch an 
opportunity to bid my nephew speak with me in 
private." 

" Who, the ragged rogue the lady scorned to 
look on ?" 

" Go to : you are a wag, sir." 

" See, she comes," answered Marrall. " She 
cannot be without him." 

" "With your favor, sir, I shall . make bold to 
take a turn or two in your rare garden," said 
Lady Allworth, entering with Wellborn. 

" I shall be glad to have you use it." 

" Come, Mr. Wellborn," she said, turning 
smilingly to her escort. 

"Grosser and grosser," cried Sir Giles; "why, 
the woman fairly dotes on himl Faith, if she 
is to be his, he must be mine." 

Not long afterwards Lady Allworth's coach 
was called. Lord Lovell offered to accompany 
her home, as Sir Giles had requested his nephew to 
remain for a short conference. 

" Stay not long, sir," said the lady to Wellborn, 
as she left the room, bending upon hin^ what 
seemed a look of affection. 

"You do not know my nature, hephew," said 
Sir Giles, turning with a crafty smile to Wellborn. 
" We worldly men are not given to lift the falling ; 
but now that I see you in a way to rise, you will 
find me ready and willing to assist you. This 
rich lady loves you heartily ; that is apparent." 

" No, no, Sir Giles ; it is but compassion." 



88 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"At any rate you must throw off this base 
shape. She shall not say she married a nephew 
of mine like a beggar, or in debt." 

" He is thrusting his own head into the noose," 
said Wellborn, gleefully, to himself. " That saves 
me labor." 

*' You have a trunk of rich clothes in pawn, not 
far from here. I'll redeem them. As for your 
petty debts, you shall have a thousand pounds to 
cut them off." 

" Here's an uncle, indeed ! Who dare say now 
that Sir Giles is hard-hearted ?" 

" No thanks, I pray you. My coach, knaves, 
for my nephew. To-morrow I will visit you." 

Had the crafty usurer seen the laughter of 
his intended dupe as he rode away, the thousand 
pounds might have been long in coming. As it 
was, his scheming brain was already busy laying 
plans how to add to his estate the rich manor 
of Lady Allworth, which he hoped to wrest from 
the weak hands of his nephew. 

Little did he dream of the bitter draught the 
fates were preparing for him. Now, when hia 
hopes were at their highest, and his deeply-laid 
plans most ptomising of success, disgrace and 
defeat impended, and for the first time in his life 
he was destined to find that honesty is the best 
policy. 

On the day after the events just described, Sir 
Giles directed Marrall to see that all the debts of 
his nephew were paid, and to provide him with 



A NEW WAT TO PAT OLD DEBTS. 89 

the chest of rich clothing of which he had spoken. 
He then gave his ring to young Allworth, as a 
token of free admission to his daughter's pres- 
ence, and directed him to ride to Nottingham and 
obtain, by the use of the same token, a marriage 
license. " I'll have it despatched, and suddenly," 
he said, " that I may quickly say ' My Honorable,' 
nay, ' My Eight Honorable daughter.' " 

These preparations made, he held an interview 
with Lord Lovell, in which he boasted of the 
extent and value of his estate, and promised to 
settle a large marriage portion on his daughter. 
He even went so far as to point out Lady 
Allworth's manor-house, near which they stood, 
asking if his noble friend approved of it, and 
telling him that it should be his before long, if he 
desired it. 

When Lord Lovell asked him, in surprise, how 
he could promise this. Sir Giles answered, that 
when the estate once became Wellborn's, as it 
promised soon to be, it quickly would be his ; and 
added that if his noble friend wanted any man's 
land in the shire, he had but to express the wish 
and he should have it. Lord Lovell replied that 
he would not dare to own aught that was extorted 
by unjust and cruel means; but Sir Giles bade 
him not to let this trouble him, vowing that he 
was quite able to carry all this sin and shame on 
his own shoulders. As for widows' tears and the 
curses of ruined families, he cared not a jot for 
them. " In one word, sir, is it a match ?" 

8* 



90 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"I hope that is past doubt," answered Lord 
Lovell. 

" Then rest secure ; not the hate of all man- 
kind, nor fear of future penalty, shall make me 
study aught but your advancement. Leave my 
religion and my deeds for me to answer, but you 
shall be an earl, if gold can compass it." 

Not till he had gone did his disgusted listener 
give free vent to his thoughts. 

" I, that have lived a soldier," he declared, " am 
bathed in a cold sweat to hear this blasphemous 
beast ! He has made a plain discovery of himself, 
indeed, and I should be as bad as he if I had any 
scruples now against working to defeat him." 

Meanwhile, Marrall had lost no time in carrying 
out Sir Giles's instructions as to his nephew, while 
"Wellborn, delighted with the opportunity to pay 
his debts, summoned his creditors by tap of drum, 
and had the satisfaction to find those who had of 
late treated him as a beggarly rogue now ready 
to fall down and worship them. Among them all 
he cherished malice against but one pair, — Tap- 
well and his wife Froth, who had treated him so 
shabbily. 

"What, Tap well 1" said Justice Greedy, who 
took part in this proceeding ; " I remember your 
wife brought me last New- Year a couple of fat 
turkeys." 

" She shall do so every Christmas, if your wor- 
ship will but stand my friend now." 

"How! — with Master Wellborn? — I will do 



A NEW .WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 91 



anything on such terms. Do you see this honest 
couple, my dear sir ? They are as good souls as 
ever tapped ale. Have they not a pair of honest 
faces ?" 

" They are the most unthankful knaves of all 
that grew rich by my riots. See here, friend 
Greedy; call in this fellow's license, and at the 
next fair I'll give you a yoke of oxen worth all 
his turkeys." 

" Come here ; — nearer, rascal," cried Greedy to 
the tapster. " Now I view you better, I never 
saw such an arch knave. Why, any honest judge 
would hang you for that face ! Ask me no favors, 
villain ; I here revoke your license, and will before 
I eat command my constable to pull down your 
sign." 

'•Have you no mercy, sir?" 

" Vanish, knave ! If I show you any may my 
promised oxen gore me." 

As for the others, Wellborn freely paid their 
claims. 

" See that all who are not here are paid," he 
said to Marrall. " Since I have chosen this new 
way to pay old debts, let no just claim go unsettled." 

"And now, your worship," said Marrall, "I 
have a weighty matter for your pi*ivate ear. Sir 
Giles will before long come on you for security for 
his thousand pounds. This I counsel you to re- 
fuse to give, and when he grows hot do you grow 
rough, and tell him he is in your debt ten times 
the sum, on the sale of your lands. Bid him pro- 



92 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

duce the deed by which you passed it over to 
him. He'll have it with him, to deliver it, with 
other writings, to Lord Lovell. Leave the rest to 
me : if I play not my part well, then hang Jack 
Marrall." 

"Be it so. I rely on you," answered Wellborn. 

While Wellborn and Marrall were thus laying 
plans to circumvent Sir Giles, Lord Lovell and 
his page were doing the same. By the aid of 
her father's ring, Allworth obtained an interview 
with his lady-love, in which a well-devised plot 
was arranged. In the midst of their conference 
Sir Giles entered, and Margaret showed him a 
letter she had received from Lord Lovell, calling 
it " a piece of arrogant paper." Her father, how- 
ever, read it with as much pleasure as it seemed 
to give his daughter displeasure, and harshly bade 
her yield to the writer's wishes. 

What the letter proposed was au elopement and 
a secret marriage, as his lordship did not wish the 
delay consequent upon a pompous ceremony. It, 
however, failed to say who the husband was to 
be, an omission which the ambitious father did 
not notice. Filled with joy, he pressed a purse 
of gold on Allworth to pay the neccssaiy ex- 
penses, bade him use his ring to overcome an}' 
objections of the chaplain, and went so far as to 
write the latter a note bidding him to " mai'ry my 
daujjchter to this gentleman." Allworth had ad- 
vised him not to put in Lord Lovell's name, since 
his lordship would be in disguise. 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 93 

" Be gone now, good Master Allworth," said Sir 
Giles, joyfully; "this shall be the best night's 
work you ever made." 

" I think so, indeed," answei'ed Allworth, lead- 
ing out Margaret. 

" Now all's cock-sure," cried her father, in high 
glee. "Methinks I already hear knights and 
ladies say, ' Sir G-iles Overreach, how is it with 
your Honorable daughter ? Has her Honor slept 
well to-night ? Or will her Honor please to accept 
this monkey, dog, or paroquet?' — I can scarce 
contain myself, I am so full of joy. Naught 
could go better." 

Night fell upon these events, and a new day 
in good time dawned, one in which Sir Giles's 
high-flown hopes were destined to be sadly over- 
thrown. The elopement had taken place in due 
secrecy, winked at by the consenting father, but 
the married couple failed to return, though Sir 
Giles waited up all night to wish them joy. With 
the early morning he made his appearance at 
Lady AUworth's house, cursing Marrall, who ac- 
companied him with his deed- box, while his looks 
were wild and distracted. The absence of the 
bride and groom ti-oubled him sorely. Lady All- 
worth, Wellborn, and Lord Lovell were present 
when Sir Giles was announced, but his lordship 
stepped aside so as not to be seen by the angry 
baronet. 

" Lady Allworth, by your leave, have you seen 
my daughter and the lord, her husband ? Tell 



94 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

me if they are in your house, that I may wish 
them joy." 

"Sir Giles, I neither know nor care where her 
Honor is," answered Lady AUworth, to his arbi- 
trary demand. 

Thus repulsed, he turned in anger to his nephew, 
but found him so independent in his answers that 
he could explain it only on the theory of a secret 
marriage with Lady Allworth. Led by this false 
conception, he peremptorily demanded security 
for the thousand pounds he had loaned him, 
threatening to drag him to jail if he refused. 

"Can you be so cruel to your nephew, now 
that he is in the way to rise ?" asked Wellborn, 
with an assumed show of alarm. 

"Mortgage the whole estate, and force your 
spouse to sign it. You shall have three or four 
thousand more, to roar and swagger with, and 
revel in taverns." 

" And beg after ; — is that your meaning ?" 

" My thoughts are my own, sir. Shall I have 
security ?" 

"No ! neither bond, nor bill, nor bare acknowl- 
edgment. Save your great looks, Sir Giles ; they 
frighten not me." 

" But my deeds shall." 

" Shall they, indeed ? Hear me, my worthy 
sir : if there be law in the land you shall pay me 
ten times a thousand pounds, to make good what 
you have robbed me of" 

Made doubly furious by this defiance. Sir Giles, 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 95 

to prove his claim, opened his deed-box, and pro- 
duced the deed to Wellborn's lands. But when 
he had unfolded it to overwhelm his insolent 
nephew, he stood like a statue of astonishment. 
What he saw was a clean sheet of parchment, its 
surface unsoiled by ink. "Wax and words alike 
were gone, and the deed had vanished. 

The astounded usurer turned to Marrall, and 
bade him swear that the deed had been properly 
drawn, and must have been tampered with. But 
his late tool now turned upon him and refused to 
aid him with a word, but charged him with foul 
plots and devilish practices. In truth, Marrall 
himself had removed every trace of writing from 
the parchment by a chemical process of his own. 

In the midst of Sir Giles's fury at the insolent 
defiance of the late servant. Justice Greedy and 
Parson Welldo entered. The appearance of the 
latter gave the usurer new hope. He turned to 
him eagerly and demanded if his daughter were 
married. 

" She is ; 1 assure you," answered the parson. 

" Then all is well. Here's more gold for you. 
Now, you that have plotted against me, think on 
it and tremble. — Ha ! they come now. I hear the 
music. Eoom there ! A lane for mj- lord !" 

The next minute, to strains of music, Margaret 
and Allworth entered in wedding robes, and 
kneeled to ask his blessing. 

"Howl What is this?" he cried, while hia 
eyes seemed ready to start from his head. 



96 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Do a father's part, and say, Heaven give them 
joy," answered the parson. 

" Confusion and ruin ! are these two married ?" 
cried Sir Giles, in fury. 

" Why this rage, sir ? Here is your letter 
saying, 'Marry her to this gentleman.' I but 
obeyed your order." 

" What, I, Sir Giles Overreach, who never 
made a blunder, gulled by children I baffled and 
fooled like this ! You wretch, I'll take back the 
life I gave you !" 

He drew his sword and would have killed 
Margaret, had not Lovell stepped hastily forward 
and^stopped him. 

" You lordly villain, it is you that have gulled 
me," yelled the cheated usurer. " If you nre a 
man, follow me from the house, and have this out 
in private." 

" I am ready," answered Lord Lovell. 

Like a fury Sir Giles flung himself from the 
room, uttering threats and curses, and swearing 
that, by the aid of his friends and servants, he 
"would burn the house to the ground and leave not 
one throat uncut. 

Lord Lovell would have followed him, but was 
stopped by Wellborn, who bade him not to think 
of fighting with a madman ; and by Lady All- 
worth, who now made public the secret that she 
had consented to bo Lord Lovell's wife, and 
declared that she would not listen to her lover's 
facing a desperate and defeated villain. 



A NEW WAT TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 97 

"Wellborn proved to be right in speaking of 
Sir Giles as a madman. The sudden overthrow 
of all his plots, loss of his ill-gotten wealth, and 
ruin of his deep-laid scheme to marry his daugh- 
ter to a lord, were too much for his brain, and in 
a few minutes he rushed back into the room, 
quite demented. His face was ghastly, his eyes 
wildly rolling, his hands clawing the air, while 
his words showed that, to his insane fancy, all 
around him were the spectral forms of those 
whom he had driven to despair and death. 

"He is mad bej^ond help," said Wellborn. 
" Disarm and bind him, or he may do some one a 
mischief." 

" Take him to Bedlam," advised Justice Greedy. 

" First see what can be done for his recovery," 
suggested the parson. 

By this time the frenzy of the unfortunate 
man had so increased that foam stood on his lips, 
and he cast himself to the floor and sousrht to 
bite the very boards. It was with no small 
trouble that they succeeded in binding his hands 
and forcing him off, while he madly raved about 
the frightful shapes that haunted him, and the 
tears of widows and orphans that seared him like 
hot irons. 

" Here is a precedent to teach wicked men that 
wrong cannot prosper," said Lord Lovell. " Take 
comfort, Margaret, I will be your father's guar- 
dian in his distraction. As for your lands, ]\Ir. 
"Wellborn, let me be umpire between you and this 
Vol. I. — E g 9 



98 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

lady, the undoubted heir of Sir Giles Overreach. 
For myself, Lady All worth shall be the anchor to 
tie me to this district." 

"I ask but justice, my lord," answered "Well- 
born. " The reputation I lost in my loose course 
I will strive to redeem. I need action, and if 
your lordship will please to confer on me a com 
pany in your command, I doubt not I shall win 
in service to my country the good repute my 
revelry has lost me." 

" That I shall gladly do, sir. And much I hope 
that happiness may hereafter dwell with us all. 
As for Sir Giles Overreach, he has but paid the 
fitting penalty for his ill deeds." 

" And I have aptly found," answered Wellborn, 
laughing, " with Lady Allworth's aid, a new way 
to pay old debts'' 



VENTCR ■' ..D. 



[Thomas OTWAr born in 

16fil, was th 



tempt at 

Otway produced a>( i^'^^.^j^ber of plays, 

se which wei d, but extravagance 



too hastily swallov^ ;■ a 

long fast. He died m 

Otway's plays diifer \\i- iy in merit, tue 
distinction between his wor-t uud best being im- 
mense. Only two of them have stood the test of 
time, — " The Orphan," and " Venice Preserved." 
The power of both of these is largely due to their 
, in which Otway has hardly an equal in 
!\ drama. — '  ^ 

, -1- and Belv 



■■-4 V- » ^*J 




rilOMAH O TIVA \ 



VENICE PRESERVED. 

BY THOMAS OTWAT. 



[Thomas Otway born at Trotton, Sussex, in 
1651, was the son of an English clergyman. He 
entered Oxford in 1669, and left without gradu- 
ating in 1674. His life was principally devoted to 
dramatic composition, though he served for some 
time as a cornet in the cavalry, and made one at- 
tempt at acting, which proved a complete failure. 
Otway produced a considerable number of plays, 
several of which were successful, but extravagance 
kept him in a state of continual want, and he be- 
came in the end so destitute that one of his biog- 
raphers says that he was choked to death from 
too hastily swallowing a piece of bread after a 
long fast. He died in 1685. 

Otway's plays differ very greatly in merit, the 
distinction between his worst and best being im- 
mense. Only two of them have stood the test of 
time, — "The Orphan," and "Venice Preserved." 
The power of both of these is largely due to their 
pathos, in which Otway has hardly an equal in 
English drama. The pathetic love-scenes between 
Jaffier and Belvideva cannot be excelled, and 

99 



100 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Venice Preserved" is, in the opinion of Mr. Gosse, 
" the greatest tragic drama between Shakespeare 
and Shelley." We give the story of this power- 
ful and affecting play.] 

On one occasion during the celebrated state 
ceremony of Venice — the marriage of the Adriatic 
by the Doge — one of the vessels, that containing 
Priuli, a member of the senate, and his daughter 
Belvidera, was run upon a rock through the care- 
lessness of the pilot. Belvidera, who stood upon 
the vessel's side, was dashed overboard, and would 
have sunk but for the readiness of a gentleman 
named Jaffier, who sprang into the water and 
sustained her till a boat came to her rescue. For 
this service the proud senator contented himself 
with thanks ; but the rescued lady felt a warmer 
Impulse, and gave her love to Jaffier, a love which 
was ardently returned. The haughty father 
looked with eyes of stern disapproval on this 
affection of his daughter for one beneath her in 
rank, and in the end the lovers, despairing of his 
consent, agreed upon a stolen marriage. At dead 
of night Belvidera left her home, and Avas wedded 
to her lover. The stolen marriage of his daughter 
threw Priuli into such a rage that he refused to 
forgive or to have any further intercourse with 
her, and for three years the wedded pair dwelt 
under the weight of his anger. 

During this period Jaffier had not been prudent. 
He had deemed it his duty to treat Belvidera with 



VENICE PKESERVED, 101 

the distinction and observance due to the daughter 
of a senator of Yenice, and in so doing had dissi- 
pated his fortune and deduced himself to- poverty. 
This poverty, indeed, in the end became ruin. 
His creditors seized Bis holiSe, put* c^eei';t? in 
charge, and prepared to sell its contents at public 
sale, while he and his tenderly-reared wife were 
turned homeless into the public streets. 

In this strait Jaffier subdued his pride suflSciently 
to make an humble appeal to Priuli for aid and 
forgiveness, but found the old senator bitterly 
obdurate. For the blessing he asked he received 
curses, and in the end was dismissed with the 
following unfeeling sentence : 

" Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; dis- 
charge the lazy vermin of thy hall ; reduce the 
costly attire of thy wife to humble weeds : then 
to some suburban cottage both retire ; drudge to 
feed thy loathsome life ; get brats, and starve. 
Home, dog ; look not to me for mercy." 

With these words the revengeful senator stalked 
haughtily away, leaving Jaf3Ser overcome with 
mingled shame and anger. As he stood thus he 
was joined by Pierre, a brave soldier of Venice 
and his devoted friend, who told him a t^le which 
drove him to desperation. 

" I passed your doors but now," he said, " and 
found them guarded by a troop of villians. They 
told me that, by sentence of the law, they had 
commission to seize all your fortune. Nay, more, 
Priuli's cruel hand had signed it. Here stood a 

9* 



102 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

ruffian lording it over a pile of massive plate, 
tumbled into a heap for public sale. There was 
another jnaking viHiinoits jests at your undoing." 
Pierre went on with his talp of ruin, ending by 
stating thiit he had seen Belvidera led weeping 
from the house, while before her distress even the 
base rabble, who had gathered to revel in the 
sight, stood mute with pity. 

The soldier had a purpose in thus probing the 
deep wounds of his friend. A conspiracy had 
been formed for the overthrow of the government 
of Venice, in which he, bitterly discontented by 
the beggarly way in which his services to the 
state had been rewarded, had taken an active part. 
He desired to enlist his friend Jaffier in this 
dangerous enterprise, and took this means to work 
him into the proper mood. 

" What ! starve, like beggars' brats, in frosty 
weather, under a hedge, and whine ourselves to 
death !" he exclaimed, with bitter emphasis. 
" Burn Venice first, and bring it to the level of 
thy ruin ! Meet me to-night, at twelve, on the 
Eialto. Fail not, my Jaffier ; there we'll talk of 
precious — mischief." 

" If it be against these senators I'm with you, 
Pierre. Trust me." 

" At twelve," repeated Pierre, as he walked away. 

The departure of the tempter was quickly 
followed by the entrance of Belvidera, in such dis- 
tress of mind at her misfortunes, yet with such un- 
yielding love for her husband, that his revengeful 



VENICE PRESERVED. 103 

feeling against her father was roused to still greater 
bitterness. 

" Can there in woman be such glorious faith ?" 
exclaimed Jaffier, inspired by her devotion. " Oh, 
woman ! lovely woman ! nature made you to 
temper man. We had been brutes without you. 
Angels are painted fair to look like you. There's 
in you all that we believe of heaven ; truth, purity, 
eternal joy, and everlasting love." And he drew 
her to his breast with a loving embrace. 

" If love be a treasure, we'll be wondrous rich," 
she answered, her eyes beaming with affection. 
" Be it in a desert, Jaffier, love will fill the void 
which fortune makes." 

Having found a place of temporary shelter for 
his wife, Jaffier, grown still more desperate and 
revengeful, kept his midnight appointment with 
Pierre, whom he found waiting for him on the 
Eialto. A brief conversation ensued, at the end 
of which Pierre presented Jaffier with a purse. 

" Here's something to buy pins," he said, with 
a look of deep meaning. 

" I but half wished to see the devil, and he's 
here already," answered Jaffier. " What must 
this purchase ? Eebellion, murder, treason ? Tell 
me which way I must be damned for this." 

" What qualms are these ? Cannot your hatred 
stretch beyond one senator ?" 

" Nay, could I kill with cursing, senators 
should rot, like dogs, on dunghills. Oh, for a 
curse to kill with !" 



104 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Daggers are better," said Pierre, significantly. 

"Daggers! Where are they?" 

" Come, and I will show you." 

Pierre now exacted from Jaffier an oath of 
fidelity, and then told him of the conspiracy that 
had been formed for the destruction of Venice. 
Even at the moment of their talk, he said, a 
council of the conspirators was being held in a 
house near by. Thither, after Jaffier had swoi*n 
by all he held good and sacred not to betray the 
secret, Pierre led him, promising him liberty for 
Venice, to which JaflSer responded by a demand 
for revenge. 

At that moment thi-ee of the conspirators were 
present in the council-room, Spinosa, a Venetian ; 
Renault, a Frenchman ; and Elliot, an English- 
man. Sharp words had passed between the last 
two, and a quarrel was on the point of breaking 
out when Bedamar, the leader of the conspiracy, 
entered, with others, and bade them cease their 
private squabbles in favor of the public service 
which drew them together. 

He had just succeeded in making the two foes 
clasp hands, when Pierre entered, having left 
Jafiier behind. A conference of the conspirators 
ensued, in which Bedamar told them that all was 
ripe for execution, ten thousand men being ready 
to aid in the overthrow of the oppressive govern- 
ment. He ended by bidding all to speak who 
had friends or interests they would wish to save. 

" You touch my weakness there," said Pierre. 



VENICE PRESERVED. 105 

" I have a friend, my one and only confidant, to 
whom my heai't was never closed. Nay, I'll 
tell you, he knows the very business of this hour. 
But he rejoices in our cause, and is at hand to 
join us." 

" How ! betrayed !" cried Eenault. 

"Not so. If he prove worthless, my blade 
shall be the first to pierce his heart. Come forth, 
thou only good I ever could boast of!" he called, 
opening the door to the antechamber. 

Jafiier entered at these words, with a drawn 
dagger in his hand. Standing before the group 
of conspirators, he recited his wrongs and his 
thirst for revenge in such fierce terms that his 
words roused distrust. Bedamar alone accepted 
him as a true ally, but old Eenault growled out 
his suspicion, 

" Your friends survey me as if I were danger- 
ous," said Jaffier to Bedamar. «' Nor did I hope 
to gain your trust without a pledge for my fidel- 
ity. Sir, bid all withdraw a while but this grave 
senior and yourself, with my friend — to spare a 
woman's blushes." 

At a gesture from Bedamar all withdrew except 
Eenault and Pierre. 

"What means this ceremony, Pierre?" asked 
Bedamar, as their new associate retired to the 
antechamber. 

He was answered by the quick reappearance 
of Jafiier, leading his wife Belvidera, who gazed 
around the room with eyes of doubt and terror. 



106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Where is it you lead me?" she demanded, in 
tones of fear. " You shake and tremble ! — your 
blood runs cold! — what mean you? Who are 
these men ?" 

JafRer, with distracted face and quavering 
voice, bade them take this woman, whom he loved 
above all the world, and hold her as a hostage for 
his fidelity. 

" To you, sirs, and your honor, I bequeath 
her," he said ; " and with her this." He gave 
Eenault the dagger he held. " If I prove false or 
faithless, then strike it to her heart." 

" Oh, thou unkind one !" cried Belvidera, pas- 
sionately, " have I deserved this from you ? Look 
on me ! Why yield you me to these men's hands ? 
If I am false, accuse me ; but if true, then pity 
the sad heart that clings to you." 

JaflSer turned his head aside, weeping, while 
Bedamar and Eenault led Belvidera from the 
room, she calling to him in pitiful tones : " Hear 
me! Bid them release me! JafRer! O Jaffier!" 

The distracted husband remained silent, while 
the lovely hostage, ignorant of his purpose, and 
filled with terror, was drawn in burning tears 
away. 

As the event proved, Jaffier, by his impulse of 
devotion to his new confederates, had introduced 
a fatal element into their midst. It was not in 
woman's hick of faith, however, but in man's 
lack of honor, that the peril to the conspiracy 
lay. Belvidera could not betray that of which 



VENICE PRESERVED. 107 

she "was ignorant, but the base old wretch Eenault 
proved false to the sacred trust which was com- 
mitted to him. When Belvidera the next morn- 
ing met her husband, she repelled him with deep 
indignation and bitterly demanded, " Why was I 
last niffht delivered to a villain ?" 

" A villain ?" he exclaimed. 

" Yes. And what meant that secret assembly 
of wretches ? what the dagger with which I was 
to be slain if you proved false ? Have I been 
made the hostage of a hellish trust? By all the 
loyalty I owe you I'll free you from the bondage 
of these slaves I I'll go to the senate, and tell ail 
I know, and all I fear and suspect." 

Her suspicions led her so near the truth, indeed, 
that Jaffier found it impossible to conceal it from 
her, and in the end breathed into her shrinking 
ear the story that he had bound himself to aid 
these men to kill her father, with all the senators 
of Venice. Belvidera heard this dread story with 
trembling horror. To kill her father! kill him 
who gave her birth ! — first must he strike his sword 
into her breast ! 

" Can your great heart descend so vilely low," 
she indignantly demanded, "as to mix with 
bravoes and ruffians, pledged to cut the throats 
of wretches as they sleep ?" 

" You wrong me, Belvidera," he protested. " I've 
engaged with honorable and earnest men. There's 
not a heart among them but is stout and honest." 

" Is it so ?" she sternly replied. " What is he, 



108 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

then, to whose cursed hands you gave me last 

night? Oh, I could tell a story " She ceased 

"with a shudder, and clasped her hands distract- 
edly. 

" What mean you ?" he demanded. " Speak on, 
I charge you !" 

" That old, base villian Oh, Jaffier, that 

wretch sought me last night where I lay on my sad 
bed, and with the dagger you had given him sought 
by threats to rob me of my virtue. But with my 
cries I scared his coward heart and forced him 
to withdraw. Are these your honorable friends ? 
these the stout and honest hearts to whom you 
have sold your soul ?" 

This recital filled Jaffier with a deeper anger and 
sense of indignity than that which had moved him 
against her father. Soothing, as well as he could, 
Belvidera's deep distress, he left her, promising that 
she should not be again exposed to such a peril. 
The furious husband now sought Pierre, whom he 
told of what had happened ; so stirring by his tale 
of treachery the honest heart of the soldier that 
he found it no easy matter to restrain him from 
taking instant revenge on Renault. In the end they 
mutually agreed that it would be best to forget 
their private injuries till the purposes of the con- 
spiracy were achieved. Then the French villian 
might be dealt with. 

Counsels so cold as these under such hot prov- 
ocation were more easily formed than kept. 
Jaffier shortly afterwards met Renault, and ques- 



VENICE PRESERVED. 109 

tioned him with such bitter satire that the villain 
trembled in fear, seeing that his baseness was 
discovered. 

" No more," said Jaffier, as the other conspirators 
entered. " It is a base world, and must reform, 
that's all." 

'• What's this ?" said Pierre, aside to him. " He 
shakes like a leaf You should have stroked him, 
not galled him." 

" Curse him, let him chew on it !" snarled Jaffier. 
" Heaven, where am I ? beset with cursed fiends 
that wait to damn me ! What a devil is man, 
when he forgets his reason !" 

Renault, concealing his nervous agitation, now 
proceeded to give their several charges to the 
conspirators, in preparation for the outbreak, 
which was fixed for the coming night. He bade 
them to fire the city, and, above all, to shed blood 
enough, to spare neither sex nor age. 

"Let each man think that on his single virtue 
depends the good and fame of all the rest. You 
droop, sir," he continued, turning to Jaffier. 

" No, with most profound attention I've heard 
it all, and wonder at your virtue." 

"Let us consider that we destroy oppression, 
avarice ; a people nursed with vices and loathsome 
lusts, which nature most abhors," continued 
Renault. 

This was too much for Jaffier's self-control, and 
he hastily left the room, to avoid giving vent to 
his feelings. In this he but plaj'-ed into the hand 

10 



110 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

of his wily foe, for no sooner had he departed than 
Renault began to hint at possible treachery, and 
in the end boldly declared that be doubted Jaffier's 
faith. Ilis skilfully worded suspicions had the 
intended effect. Some of the conspirators sprang 
from their seats, and proposed to search the house 
and kill the traitor. 

" Who talks of killing ?" exclaimed Pierre, 
fiercely, looking from face to face. " Who's he 
will shed the blood that's dear to me ? Is it you 
— or you, sir ? What, not one speak ? Not a 
word, Renault? Then, sir, I'll tell you a secret : 
suspicion at best is but a coward's virtue !" 

" A coward !" cried Renault, drawing his sword. 

" Put up your sword, old man ; your hand 
shakes at it." 

•'We'll not be sold by a traitor," cried one of 
the others, a sentiment which his fellows echoed, 
in spite of Pierre's threatening looks. 

" One such word more," he exclaimed, in fury, 
"and by heaven, I'll to the senate, and hang you 
all like dogs, in clusters ! Why peep your coward 
swords half out their sheaths ? Why do you not 
all brandish them like mine ? You fear to die, 
and yet dare talk of killing! Away, disperse all 
to your several charges, and meet to-morrow 
where your honor calls you. I'll bring that man 
whose blood you thirst for, and you shall see him 
venture with you all." 

" Forgive us, Pierre, we have been too hasty," said 
Elliot, a sentiment to which the others responded. 



VENICE PRESERVED. Ill 

"Nay, you have found the way to melt and 
cast me as you will," answered the generous- 
hearted soldier. " I'll bring this friend and yield 
him to your mercy. And in him I give you my 
heart's best jewel." 

" Keep him, Pierre," they answered. " You 
dare as much as we ; and he whom you trust we 
should not doubt." 

The fate of conspiracies turns always on fine 
threads. When on the very verge of success a 
false-blown breath may topple the deepest-laid 
plot into ruin. In the present case the events wo 
have described were so many links in a chain of 
circumstances that was destined to dras: down 
Jaffier's new associates into irremediable ruin. 

The story he had told Belvidera had filled her 
soul with shuddering horror. Her husband a 
traitor ! her father slain by the dagger of him she 
loved! herself a prey to the lust of that vile 
wretch ! — this must not be, let who would suffer. 
By the force of love and the arguments of expe- 
diency she won her horror-stricken husband over 
to a sense of the vileness of his associates. Horror 
and indignation had made the woman stronger 
than the man, and sorely against his will she led 
him through the streets towards the senate- 
chamber. 

" Where dost thou lead me?" he demanded, dis- 
tractedly. "Every step I move, methinks I 
tread upon some mangled limb of a racked friend." 

" I lead thee to a deed," she answered, " that 



112 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

shall place thy name high among those few that 
have saved sinkini; nations." 

"And of those who, in fond compassion to a 
woman's tears, have forgotten their manhood, 
virtue, truth, and honor." 

" Return, then, if you will," she cried, in moving 
accents, " but let your dagger begin on me its 
bloody work. Or let me live, if you think it 
nobler, till I fall a victim to the hateful will of 
that infernal devil." 

"Nay, name it not again!" cried Jaffier, in an 
impulse of rage. " Destruction fall upon my 
coward head if I forgive him !" 

"Then with me to the senate. Your friends, 
you say ! have you a friend dearer than Belvidera ?" 

Step by step, with arguments like these, she 
drew her yielding husband through the midnight 
streets towards the senate-chamber. 

Meanwhile the Doge's council was in session, 
called together by old Pritili, to whom had como 
from some unknown source a vague hint of the 
conspiracy, fixed, as he had been warned, to break 
out that very night, perhaps that very hour. 
Guards were stationed in the streets surrounding 
the senate-chamber, with orders to arrest all per- 
sons found abroad, and bring them before the 
council. Into the hands of these guards fell 
Jaffier, reluctantly following his wife. This event 
fixed his irresolute will. He bade the captain of 
the guard to bring him before the council, saying 
that he had an important revelation to make. 



VENICE PRESERVED. IH 

" We are prepared to hear you," said the Doge, 
when Jaffier was brought before the council. " It 
is rumored that a jilot has been contrived against 
the state. If you know aught of this, speak. 
You shall be dealt with mercifully." 

" I came not here to save my life," answered 
Jaffier, boldly. " You see before you a sworn foe 
of Venice. But treat me justly, and I may prove 
a friend." 

" The slave capitulates j give him the torture," 
cried the Doge. 

"That you dare not do. Say such a thing 
again, by Heaven, I'll shut these lips forever!" 

"Name your conditions, then." 

" Full pardon- for myself, and the lives of two 
and twenty friends whose names I will give you. 
Whatever their crimes, I will not speak till I 
have the oath and sacred promise of this reverend 
assembly for their pardon and liberty." 

The oath he proposed was taken by the Doge 
and assembled senators, who saw by his steadfast 
demeanor that nothing less would make him 
speak. This done, Jaffier, believing that he had 
retrieved his honor, handed to the council a 
paper containing the names of his late asso- 
ciates, and stating where they might be found. 

Officers were sent at once to the place, where 
the leaders of the conspiracy were caught in the 
very act of consultation, armed and ready for 
mischief They were brought in chains before 
the council, some drooping with terror, some bold 
Vol. I.—h 10* 



114 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

and defiant. Pierre, above all, stood before them 
with bold demeanor, and bade them produce the 
wretch who dared call him a traitor. 

At this demand Jaffier was bi'ought in, like 
them, in chains. At first sight Pierre believed 
that he, too, was a prisoner ; but when he, with 
downcast face, acknowledged himself as the 
informer, the brave soldier was overcome. 

" So, then, all's over," he mournfully said. 
" Yenice has lost her freedom, I my life. No more." 

" Will you make confession of your vile deeds, 
and trust the senate's mercy ?" asked the Doge. 
" Speak ; pardon or death ?" 

"Death ! honorable death I" 

" Death let it be," said Eenault. 

" Break up the council," commanded the Doge. 
" Captain, guard your prisoners. Jaffier, you're 
free, but these must wait for judgment." 

A scene of heart-breaking emotion followed 
between Jaffier and Pierre, who remained to- 
gether after the others had been removed. The 
betrayed soldier broke out in fiery indignation 
against his false friend, bade Jaffier leave him, as 
a whining monk whom he knew not, and struck 
him when he abjectly begged to be heard. In 
vain Jaffier continued to implore. Pierre de- 
nounced him as a spiritless coward and traitor; 
and when he begged his injui-ed friend to accept 
the life which the council had sworn to grant, 
the fiery soldier refused to bear a life given by 
such hands. 



VENICE PRESERVED. 115 

" My eyes won't lose the sight of thee," cried 
Jaffier, in despair. 

"Nay, then, thus I throw thee from me," 
thundered Pierre, hurling him fiercely aside. 
" May curses, great as thy falsehood, catch thee !" 

He strode from the room with these words, 
leaving Jaffier plunged in the depths of remorse 
and despair. 

As he stood in this mood, his fingers nervously 
clutching his dagger, which he was half inclined 
to thrust into his own bosom, Belvidera entered, 
the prey of a remorse as deep as his own. The 
tale she had to tell completed his load of woe. 
The faithless senators had proved false to their 
oaths, and, on the quibble that the prisoners had 
refused to beg for mercy, had condemned them 
all to torture and to public execution. 

This dreadful news almost robbed Jaffier of his 
reason. He saw, in fancy, his betrayed friend 
stretched on the rack, groaning and bleeding ; 
and in a paroxysm of rage against her who had 
betrayed him, drew the dagger and sought to 
thrust it into her heart. 

" Ah ! do not kill me, Jaffier !" she cried, shrink- 
ing from him. 

" When we parted last, I gave this dagger to 
be your portion if I should prove false. You've 
made me false, and must pay the penalty." 

"Mercy!" she exclaimed, as he raised the 
weapon again, while his eyes seemed to weep 
blood. 



116 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Nay, no struggling," he cried, seizing her 
fiercely. 

"Then kill me, while thus I cling about thy 
cruel neck, and kiss thy revengeful lips. Thus 
shall I die in joy." 

She sprang towards him, flung her arms around 
his neck, and pressed a loving kiss upon his lips. 

" But one blow does it, yet by immortal love I 
dare not strike it," exclaimed Jaffier, as he flung 
away the dagger and fondly embraced her. " Bel- 
videra, you have enslaved me body and soul. But 
one hope remains. Fly to thy cruel father, bid 
him save my friend, or all our peace and happi- 
ness are ended." 

The unhappy woman obeyed, and by her tears 
and entreaties succeeded in winning her obdurate 
father to use his influence to save at least the life 
of Pierre. Unfortunately, he was too late. The 
senate had, in his absence, decreed the death of 
all the prisoners, and would not withdraw their 
sentence. 

The news of this fatal action completed Jaffier's 
despair, and roused him to a final resolve. He 
had an interview with Belvidera, in which his 
heart was full of love, but his soul throned in 
deadly resolution. He bade her to live for their 
child ; for himself, he was pledged to death. 

" Hark !" he exclaimed, " the dismal bell tolls 
out for death ! I must attend its call, for my 
poor friend, my dying Pierre, expects me. He 
sent a message to require I would see him before 



VENICE PRESERVED. 117 

he died, and take his last forgiveness. Farewell 
for ever." 

Belvidera clung to him so firmly that he was 
forced to tear himself from her arms, leaving 
her with one last kiss of love. This dreadful 
parting proved to much for the agonized woman. 
Her reason gave way in the strain of agony, and 
she rushed from the spot in raving madness. 

Meanwhile, little less mad, Jaffier had flown to 
the locality of the execution, in St. Mark's Place, 
where stood the scaffold and wheel prej^ared for 
Pierre's death. 

" Forgive that blow I dealt you, Jaffier," said 
Pierre, in gentle accents. " I love you still, though 
you have slain me. Heaven knows I need a friend 
at this sad moment." 

" Trust me, Pierre. PU not prove false again." 

" Is it fit that a soldier, who has lived with 
honor, should die that death of infamy?" point- 
ing to the wheel. " Come hither, Jaffier. Will 
you do me this last justice?" He whispered in 
his friend's ear. 

"That only?" 

" That, and no more.' 

"Plldoit." 

" Come, captain," continued Pierre. " Keep off 
the rabble, that I may die with decency. I'd 
have none but my friend beside me in the last 
moment." 

Pierre now ascended the scaffold, attended by 
Jaffier, and was bound by the executioner. 



118 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Now, Jaffier!" he cried. "Now I'm going! 
Now " 

" Have at thee, honest heart !" cried Jaffier, 
stabbing him. " And this is well too !" He thrust 
the bloody weapon into his own breast. 

"Now thou hast indeed been faithful," cried 
Pierre, with a laugh of exultation. " That was 
done nobly! We have deceived the senate." 

He fell with these words and died ; while 
Jaffier, after leaving his curse for the perjured 
rulers and his last dying blessing for Belvidera, 
dropped across the body of his friend, and 
breathed his last. 

While this dreadful scene was taking place, 
Belvidera, in her father's home, was raving in the 
wildest madness. Her agony reached its climax 
when the captain of the guard entered, and un- 
thinkingly told Priuli before her of the bloody 
end of the two friends. She paused a moment to 
listen, and then broke into a maniac outburst of 
horror. At length, worn out by the violence of 
her emotions, she cried, in weakened accents : 

" My love ! my dear ! ray blessing ! help me ! 
help me! They have hold of me and drag me 
to the bottom ! Nay, — now they pull so hard, — 
farewell." She had knelt during these words, and 
now fell heavily to the floor, with death's pallor 
upon her face. She had gone to join her husband 
in heaven. 



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SirSANNA CF.M7./1 /-//, 



THE BUSYBODY. 

BY SUSANNAH CENTLIVRE. 



[The authoress of the amusing comedy whose 
story we give below, was the daughter of a Lin- 
colnshire gentleman named Freeman. She was 
born about 1667, probably in Ireland, whither 
her father had gone on the accession of Charles 
II. Being left a penniless orphan at eleven years 
of age, she came to London, where her wit and 
beauty proved so attractive that she won the 
heart of Sir Stephen Fox, whom she married at 
the age of sixteen. He died within a year, and 
she soon afterwards married an officer named 
Cai'roU, who was killed in a duel. Left destitute 
by his death, she began writing for the stage, her 
first work being a tragedy, " The Perjured Hus- 
band," which was produced in 1700. She after- 
wards became an actress herself, and in 1706 mar- 
ried Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne. 
She died in 1723. 

She wrote in all nineteen plays, of which " The 
Busybody," "A Bold Stroke for a Husband," and 
others, are still occasionally played. They are 
marked by lively plots and humorous incident. 

119 



120 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Of these plays, " The Busybodj^," whose story 
we give, has won the highest reputation.] 

Sir George Airy, a young gentleman of Lon- 
don, found himself in the awkward dilemma of 
being in love with two ladies at once, though the 
two but fairly made up one, since he loved the 
face of the one and the mind of the other. As 
he himself expressed it : " One is a lady whoso 
face I never saw, but who is witty to a miracle ; 
the other is beautiful as Venus, but dumb as an 
oracle. I am charmed by the wit of the one, and 
die for the beauty of the other." 

One of these ladies, in fact, he had never seen 
but under a mask, and only knew of her that she 
had a sweet voice and a witty tongue. The other, 
whose beauty he admired, but whose voice he 
had never heard, was a rich young lady named 
Miranda, the ward of Sir Francis Gripe, who him- 
self had designs upon her fortune, and took the 
greatest pains to prevent suitoi-s from approach- 
ing her. *~^ 

Sir Francis had a son named Charles, whom he 
treated in a miserly manner, giving him no money 
of his own, and little of that left him by his 
uncle, which had been placed in the father's care 
till the son should come to years of discretion ; a 
period which was not likely soon to arrive, in 
the old gentleman's opinion. He had also a 
second ward, a foolish fellow named Marplot, who 
would certainly never come to years of discretion, 



THE BUSYBODY. 121 

and was such a meddling busybody that, with 
the best of wishes to help bis friends, he was con- 
stantly hindering them. He had an insatiable 
thirst for secrets, and in his prying desire to know 
all that was going on, and to lend every enterprise 
a heljiing hand, he managed to spoil many a well- 
devised scheme, and to sow the seeds of a plentiful 
crop of mischief for his friends to reap. 

Sir George Airy and Charles Gripe were close 
friends, and felt a community of sentiment to the 
extent of being both deep in love. Charles had 
placed his warm aifections upon Isabinda, the 
lovely daughter of Sir Jealous Traffic, a London 
merchant of Spanish birth, who, having arranged 
a Spanish match for his daughter, did his utmost 
to keep her attractive face from the eyes of the 
London gallants. 

In this he had not very well succeeded. The 
young lady had met Charles clandestinely, and 
fully returned his love, while she felt a deep aver- 
sion for the Spanish match. Moreover, Mrs. 
Patch, whom Sir Jealous had placed in espionage 
over his daughter, proved a faithless duenna, and 
joined with the young lady in every device to 
deceive her unreasonable parent. 

These two love-affairs — that of Sir George with 
his witty unknown and his beautiful unheard, 
and that of Charles with the closely-guarded Span- 
ish beauty — were likely to give Marplot a chance 
to exercise his peculiar talents. In fact, Sir 
George and Charles had managed to rouse the 

F 11 



122 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

curiosity of Marplot to the highest degree, by 
acknowledging in his presence that they had 
secrets to conceal. Sir George did so by the 
remark that he had made an appointment to 
meet Sir Francis on the oddest bargain he ever 
heard of, — but would not yet say what it was. 
On the other hand, Charles's servant came in and 
whispered to him that Isabinda's father had, by 
staying at home, spoiled her plot to meet him in 
the park, but that Mrs. Patch was on the watch, 
and would send him word the minute the old 
gentleman went out. 

" What's all this whispering about?" said Mar- 
plot to himself. *' I shall go stark mad if I'm not 
let into the secret. Why the devil do they hide 
these things from friends who only wish to help 
them ?" 

" Good-day. I think I see Sir Francis yondei"," 
said Sir George, who had been closely on the 
watch. He hastened away. 

" Marplot, you must excuse me ; I am engaged," 
said Charles, taking another direction. 

"Engaged! Egad, I'll engage my life to find 
out what both your engagements are," exclaimed 
the disappointed Marplot. 

As regards Sir George, we may as well reveal 
to the reader a fact which was a closed secret to 
him, — namely, that the two ladies he loved were 
one and the same. The masked and disguised 
lady, whose wit ho so admired, was really Miranda, 
who took this means to escape the watchfulness 



THE BUSYBODY. 123 

of her guardian, and hold stolen interviews with 
her lover, — whose affection she fully returned. 
She had, thus disguised, witnessed the interview 
just described, and, seeing Sir George move hastily 
forward, she followed him at a distance, hoping 
for an opportunity to mystify him still further. To 
her surprise, however, she saw him meet her guar- 
dian, and enter into earnest conversation with him. 

" What can this mean ?" she asked herself, 
seeking a place of concealment whence she might 
observe them closely. 

In ignorance that a lady was concealed within 
hearing, the two men continued their conversa- 
tion, to which Miranda listened with a face that 
was a study of expression. What she heard was 
that Sir George offered Sir Francis a purse of 
fifty guineas, for some purpose connected with 
herself. This bribe he increased, at the sugges- 
tion of Sir Francis, to one hundred guineas, for 
which sum the bargain was concluded. This, 
as written down by Sir Francis, ran as follows : 
" Imprimis, you are to be admitted into my house, 
in order to move your suit to Miranda, for the 
space of ten minutes, without let or molestation, 
provided I remain in the same room." 

" But out of earshot," supplied Sir George. 

" Well, well, I don't desire to hear what you 
say. It is a bargain, Sir George. Take the last 
sound of your guineas. Hal ha! ha! Miranda 
and I shall have the jolliest laugh at you, my 
poor, young dupe ;" and he withdrew, clinking 



124 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

the guineas as he went. There was no better 
music for his ears. 

" Does she really love this old cuff?" soliloquized 
Sir George. " Pshaw ! that's morally impos- 
sible. But then, what hopes have I ? I have 
never spoken to her, and she has never answered 
me, except so far as eyes can talk. Well, well, I 
may be lucky, — if not, it's but a hundred guineas 
thrown away." 

" Upon what. Sir George !" 

The speaker was Miranda, who had come from 
her hiding-place, her face hidden by a close mask. 

" Ha ! my incognita ! — upon a woman, madam." 

" The worst thing you could deal in ; and likely 
to damage the soonest," answered Miranda, with 
a laugh. " You have heard the farewell chink of 
your guineas, I fear," 

A lively conversation ensued between them, at 
the end of which Sir George begged so eagerly to 
see her face, and grew so determined not to let 
her escape unmasked, that the frolicsome lady 
was in something of a quandary. In the end 
she promised, if he would excuse her face and 
turn his back, to confess why she had so often 
spoken with him, who she was, and where she 
lived. 

To this the ardent lover willingly agreed, and 
Miranda proceeded to tell him that she had first 
seen him in Paris, at a birthday ball, where she 
had been charmed into love for him. As she 
thus spoke, with a show of deep feeling, she drew 



THE BUSYBODY. 125 

back, step by step, and in the end slipped silently 
away, while Sir George stood eagerly listening. 

" Don't weep, but go on," he said, finding her 
silent. " My heart melts in your behalf. — Poor 
lady, she expects I should comfort her, and in 
truth she has said enough to encourage me." He 
turned around at this, and started in angry sur- 
prise. " Ha I gone ! — the devil ! — ^jilted ! And 
this is all an invented tale ? Egad, I'd give ten 
guineas to know who the gypsy is. A curse of 
my folly, I deserve to lose her. What woman can 
forgive a man who turns his back ?" 

The romantic lover was destined to fare as 
poorly in his interview with Miranda unmasked 
as he had with Miranda masked. It was not that 
the girl was averse to him, but that she had a 
purpose of her own to gain with her guardian. 
In fact, her estate was tied up in such a way that 
she was obliged to seem to encourage the old fel- 
low's love-making, for the purpose of getting her 
property out of his hands. On hearing, then, 
from Sir Francis, the story of her lover's odd 
bargain, she affected to be greatly amused. 

"I shall die with laughing!" she exclaimed. 
" A hundred pieces to talk ten minutes with me ! 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! what does the young fop mean ?" 

"And I to be by, too, there's the jest. If it 
had been in private, now " 

" Mercy, gardy, 3JOU might trust me I Such a 
neat, handsome, loving, good-natured old lad as 
you !" 

11* 



126 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Cunning rogue, and wise, too, i' faith !" cried 
the foolish old dupe. "To show you that you 
have not chosen amiss, I'll this moment disinherit 
my son, and settle my whole estate on you." 

"No, no, gardy; the world will say 1 sold my 
self. But I'll tell you what you may do. You 
know my father's will runs that I am not to 
possess my estate, without your consent, till I am 
five-and-twenty. You shall favor me by abating 
the odd seven years, and making me mistress of 
my estate to-day ; and we'll see if I do not make 
you happy to-morrow." 

" Humph ! that may not be safe," muttered Sir 
Francis. "No, no, my dear, I'll settle it on you 
for pin-money. That will be every bit as well, 
you know." 

" Unconscionable old wretch !" cried Miranda 
to herself " He would bribe me with my own 
money ! How shall I get it out of his hands?" 

" Come, my girl ; what way do you propose to 
act to banter Sir George ?" 

" I must not banter. Sir George knows my voice 
too well," she said to herself. " I tell you, gardy," 
she continued aloud, " I'll not answer him a word, 
but be dumb to all he says." 

" Dumb ? Good ! excellent ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! she's 
the wittiest rogue ! How mad the fellow will be 
to find he has paid his money for a dumb-show.'" 

They were interrupted at this point in the con- 
versation by the entrance of Charles, who met 
with but a surly reception from his father, — in 



THE BUSYBODY. 127 

the first place, for breaking in upon an agreeable 
interview ; and in the second, for hinting that 
some money would be received with thanks. 
Miranda took the opportunity to escape, leaving 
the penniless son to the tender mercies of his 
miserly father. The interview was so little agree- 
able that Chai'les was not displeased when it was 
interrupted by the entrance of Marplot, on the 
same errand, as it proved, for he, too, wanted 
money. 

" So ! here's another extravagant coxcomb that 
will spend his fortune before he comes to it!" 
said Sii- Francis to himself. " But let the fool go 
on ; he shall pay swinging interest. — Well, sir, 
does necessit}^ bring you, too?" 

" You have hit it. I want a hundred pounds." 

" And I suppose I've got all I'm likely to re- 
ceive," said Charles. 

" Ay, sir, and you may march as soon as you 
please." 

" The devil !" exclaimed Marplot to himself. 
" Is he going ? If he gets out before me I shall 
lose him again." 

He took the cheque which Sir Francis grudg- 
^"gly g^v6 him, and ran hastily out, eager alike 
to get the money and to follow Charles and his 
secret. However, the chance of the spendthrift 
son was not quite gone. His father offered him 
an opportunity to provide himself abundantly 
with funds. This was by marrying old Lady 
Winkle, who had forty thousand pounds, and was. 



128 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS.  

in the market for a young husband. Yet to this 
offer the young man decidedly demurred. The 
old lady had one blind eye and a hunchback, as an 
offset to her wealth. 

" A young and beautiful woman, with a tenth 
of the money, would be more to my taste," he 
answered. "I thank you, sir; but you choose 
better for yourself, I find." 

" Out of my doors, you dog ! Do you pretend 
to meddle with my marriage, sirrah ? Eefuse 
forty thousand pounds ! Begone, sir, and never 
dare ask me for money again !" 

Charles hastened out to keep his temper in. 
Hardly had he disappeared before Marplot hastily 
returned, asking for him eagerly. On learning 
that he had gone, he was disti-acted. 

" Where the devil shall I find him now ?" he 
exclaimed, as he ran out again. " I shall certainly 
lose this secret." 

The visits of Charles and Marplot were followed 
by a more agreeable one, that of Sir George, who 
was received by Sir Francis with a great show 
of good humor. After bantering the lover by 
shaking the bag of guineas under his nose, he 
brouglit in the lady, telling him that he might now 
have the opportunity to win her love. Sir George 
began by saluting her rosy lips. 

" Hold, sir !" cried Sir Francis. " Kissing was 
not in our agreement." 

" Oh ! that's by way of prologue. To your* 
post, old Mammon, and do not meddle." 



THE BUSYBODY. 129 

"Be it so, young Timon," and Sir Francis 
stepped aside, watch in hand. " Ten minutes 
only, remember; not a minute more." 

An amusing scene ensued. Sir George warmly 
told Miranda the story of his love, and kneeled 
at her feet, until she gave him her hand to raise 
him. At this Sir Francis ran hastily up, exclaim- 
ing that palming was not in the contract. He drew 
back still more hastily, however, when the angry 
lover touched his sword and vowed to run him 
through if he did not keep his distance. As the 
conference proceeded and the lady continued 
dumb, her quick-witted lover surmised that she 
had been forbidden to speak, and proposed that she 
shouldanswerin the language of signs, by noddino-, 
shaking her head, and sighing. This she did not 
hesitate to do, much to her guardian's uneasiness. 

"What, a vengeance? Are they talking by 
signs?" he ejaculated. "I may be fooled yet. 
What do you mean. Sir George ?" 

" To cut your throat if you dare mutter another 
syllable," answered Sir George, with a look of 
fury. 

" The bloody-minded wretch ! I'd give him his 
money back if he were fairly out of the house," 
groaned Sir Francis. 

Sir George, finding the sign-language none too 
satisfactorj^, now adopted another method. He 
began a double conversation, speaking for himself 
and answering for her; and in the end offered a 
letter as if from her to himself. She struck it from 
Vol. l.—i 



130 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

his hand, but he picked it up and kissed it with 
simulated rapture. 

" Now for a quick fancy, and a long extempore," 
he said, opening it. 

" The time is up," cried Sir Francis, running 
forward. " Here are the hundred pounds you 
have won, my girl. Go ; I'll be with you presently j 
ha! ha! ha!" 

" Mercj^, Miranda, you won't leave me just in 
the nick, will you ?" exclaimed Sir George, as she 
hurried away. 

" She has nicked you finely, I think," said Sir 
Francis, in high glee, and he continued his jeering 
laughter till Sir George, seeing that Miranda had 
really gone, left the house in a rage. 

He was not many steps distant from the house, 
when the triumphant old miser sought his ward, 
with whom he laughed heartily at the discomfiture 
of the would-be lover. 

" Now, when shall be the happy day, my dear? 
When shall we marry ?" he tenderly asked. 

" There's nothing wanting but your consent, 
Sir Francis." 

" My consent !" he repeated. 

" It is only a whim, but I wish to have every- 
thing done formally. Therefore, when you sign 
a paper, drawn by an able lawyer, that I have 
your full consent to marry, then, gardy " 

" Oh, come, child, when I marry you that will 
be consent enough. And then, if " 

"No ifs, gardy. Have I refused two British 



THE BUSYBODY. 131 

lords, and half a score of knights, to have you put 
in your ifs ?" 

"So you have indeed, and I'll trust to your 
management." 

They were interrupted at this critical moment 
by the hasty entrance of Marplot, whom the old 
knight sourly asked how he dared to plunge in 
without being announced. Marplot replied that 
his business was not with him, but with the lady, 
and that fame had brought to his ears the report 
of a villanous plot to chouse an honorable gentle- 
man out of a hundred pounds. To this Miranda 
replied, that she would treat any fop who laid 
such a plot against her the way she had treated 
this one, and that she preferred Sir Francis for a 
husband to all the fops in the universe. He might 
tell all this to Sir George Airj^, if he pleased, and 
also warn him to keep away from the left-hand 
garden gate, for if he should dare to saunter there, 
about the hour of eight, he should be saluted with 
a pistol or a blunderbuss. 

"Oh, monstrous!" exclaimed Sir Francis. 
"Does this fellow dare to come to the garden 
gate ?" 

" The gardener has told me of just such a man, 
who tried to bribe him for an entrance. Tell him 
he shall have a warm reception if he comes this 
night," she repeated to Marplot. 

" Pistols and blunderbusses ! A warm reception 
indeed !" cried Marplot. " I'll advise him to keep 
away." 



132 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

-" And I hope he'll have more wit than to take 
your advice," said Miranda to herself. 

The ardent busybody, in mortal fear for tho 
safety of his friend, hastened to Sir George, whom 
he told what had passed, and continued : 

" Miranda vows, if you dare approach the gar- 
den gate, as you used to do, at eight o'clock to- 
night, you shall be saluted with a blunderbuss. 
She bade me tell you in those very words." 

" The garden gate — at eight — as I used to do ! 
What does the woman mean ? Is there such a 
gate, Charles?" 

" Yes ; it opens into the park." 

"Good. Hal ha! I see it now! My dear 
Marplot, let me embrace you ! You are my bet- 
ter angel." 

"You have reason to be transported, Sir 
George ; I have saved your life." 

'' My life ! ^''ou have saved my soul, man ! Here, 
drink a bumper to the garden gate, you dear 
meddlesome rogue, you." 

Sir George and Charles, in fact, became so jubi- 
lent and mysterious in their allusions to the 
garden gate that the dull-witted messenger began 
to suspect that there was a new secret afloat. 

" Egad, there's more in this garden gate affair 
than I comprehend," he said to himself. " Faith, 
I'll away again to gardy's and find out what it 
means." 

We must, however, leave Sir George and his 
love-affair, and return to that of Charles and 



THE BUSYBODY. 133 

Isabinda, which, it must be confessed, proceeded 
no more favorably. The lady's father, Sir Jealous 
Traffic, was determined that his daughter should 
not fall in the way of any of the English gallants 
before the arrival of her expected Spanish lover, 
and therefore had bidden Mrs. Patch to keep the 
strictest watch upon her. He had more confidence 
in this English duenna than she deserved, yet not 
so much as to trust her fully. On the occasion of 
which we have already spoken, Mrs. Patch waited 
demurely till he had left the house, and then 
quickly opened the door, and beckoned to Whisper, 
Charles's servant, who was lurking outside. She 
bade him to fly in all haste, and tell his master 
that his lady love was now alone. 

It unluckily happened that this news was 
brought to Charles while Marplot was with him, 
and threw him into such a joyous excitement as to 
convince the curious busybody that a new secret 
was afoot. He became the more convinced when 
Charles absolutely forbade him to go with him. 

" Mum, — you know I can be silent upon occa- 
sion," he said. 

" I wish you could be civil, too," answered 
Charles. "Farewell." 

" Why, then," said the disappointed Marplot to 
himself, " if I can't attend you, there's nothing 
left but to follow you." 

It would have been wiser in Charles to take 
him along, for Marplot, with the best intentions 
in the world, had a wonderful capacity for doing 

12 



134 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

the right thing the wrong way. He followed 
Charles to the house, saw him admitted by Mrs. 
Patch, and stood before the door in a quandary. 

"Who the deuce lives there?" he ejaculated. 
" The risky fellow may be running into danger, 
for aught I know. I don't like the way he was 
let in. Foolish boy, in spite of your endeavor to 
keep me out of the secret, I may save your life 
yet. I'll plant myself at that corner, and watch 
all that come and go." 

Not many minutes elapsed before he saw a 
person approaching, who was muttering sourly 
to himself It was Sir Jealous, who had caught 
sight of Whisper lurking near his door, and had 
been so troubled thereby that he felt obliged to 
return. 

" There was something secret in the fellow's 
face," he muttered. " By St. lago, if I should 
find a man in the house i'd make mince-meat of 
him !" 

" Mince-meat !" exclaimed Marplot, who over- 
heard this. " Ah, poor Charles ! Egad, he's old. 
I might bully him a little." 

" My own key shall let me in," continued Sir 
Jealous. " I'll give them no warning," 

" What's that you say, sir ?" asked Marplot, 
stepping boldly up. 

"What'> that to you, sir?" exclaimed Sir 
Jealous, turning quickly upon him. 

" Why, it is this to me, sir, that the gentleman 
you threaten is an honest man and my friend. If 



THE BUSYBODY. 135 

he come not as safe out of your house as he ■went 
in, I have a dozen myrmidons near by who shall 
beat your house about your ears." 

«' Went iii ? What, is he in, then ? I'll myr- 
midon you, you dog 1 Thieves ! thieves !" The 
choleric old gentleman fell upon Marplot as he 
cried "thieves!" and beat him so roundly with 
his cane that the victim of his own curiosity 
yelled "murder" in return. 

While this scene was taking place outside, 
there was no little commotion within. Mrs. Patch, 
who had been on guard, had seen her master in 
good time, and warned the lovers. It was too 
late to escape by the door, and not safe to take 
refuge in closet or cupboard, for Sir Jealous, if 
he had any suspicion, would search every hole in 
the house. 

" I have it," said Mrs. Patch. " Eun to your 
chamber, miss. I'll take him to the balcony, 
whence he may easily descend to the street." 

" Good ! lead on !" cried Charles. 

Meanwhile the aspect of affairs outside had 
changed. The irate father, after working off 
some of his wrath upon the busybody, had 
stamped furiously into the house, and slammed 
the door violently behind him ; while Marplot, 
honestly anxious to rescue his friend from an old 
man with such unexpected vigor of arm, was 
shouting " murder " at the top of his voice. His 
cries were brought to a sudden end by Charles, 
who dropped upon him from the balcony. 



136 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" How the devil came you here ?" cried the 
angry lover. 

" Here ! Why, I've done you a neat bit of ser 
vice, man. I told the old thunderbolt that the 
gentleman who was gone in was " 

" You told him 1" exclaimed Charles, in a sud- 
den rage, shaking him violently. " Fool ! I 
could crush you to atoms!" 

" So ! he beats me for my valor, and you choke 
me for my kindness 1 I'm ready to vow never to 
do anything to help my friends again." 

Sir Jealous, meanwhile, was turning the house 
almost upside-down in his angiy search for the 
hidden lover, having first locked his daughter in 
her room, where he bade Patch to keep close 
guard over her. His efforts proved useless, how- 
ever ; the bird had safely flown ; and the old fellow 
subsided into muttered threats to consign her as 
quickly as possible to the arms of Don Diego 
Babinetto, the expected suitor from Spain. 

The adventures of the lovers for that day were 
not yet over. In their brief interview they had 
devised a plan by which Charles might enter the 
house with less danger of discovery. This was 
by aid of a closet window and a rope ladder, the 
opening of the window to be a signal that the 
coast was clear. They had also a plan by which 
he could wi'ite to her without danger of having 
his letters read, he having contrived a secret 
alphabet for this purpose. 

Proceeding to an inn he wrote a letter to Isa- 



THE BUSYBODY. 137 

binda in this character, and gave it to Whisper, 
instructing him to deliver it secretly to Mrs. 
Patch. Whisper accomplished this safely, and 
the faithful Patch dropped the letter, as she sup- 
posed, into her pocket, though it really missed 
the opening and slipped to the floor. She told 
Whisper that there was likely to be an oppor- 
tunity for the lovers to meet again that evening. 
Sir Jealous had invited some friends to sup with 
him, and while they were at table, the lover 
might use the rope ladder and the closet win- 
dow, for an interview with his sweetheart. This 
information given, Mrs. Patch hastened into the 
house, in ignorance of the fate of her letter. 

Not many minutes afterwards. Sir Jealous 
appeared with an open letter in his hand. 

" Sir Diego has safely arrived. He shall marry 
my daughter the minute he comes," he said. 
"What's here? A letter? On my steps?" He 
picked up the letter which Patch had dropped, 
and opened it without hesitation. " Humph ! 
is this Hebrew ? There's some trick in it, on my 
life. It was certainly designed for my daughter, 
and this may be one of love's hieroglyphics." 

At almost the same moment Patch discovered 
her loss, much to the alarm of herself and her 
mistress. 

"I must have dropped it on the stairs," she 
said. " Thank heaven, no one but you can read 
it." 

" If my father finds it he will be sure to scent 

12* 



138 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

mischief. What do you want, Thomas ?" as a ser- 
vant entered the room. 

" My master ordered me to lay the cloth in this 
room for supper." 

" In this room ! Then all is over. Ho has 
found the letter. We are ruined. Fly and fasten 
the closet window, Patch ; that will warn 
Charles." 

Before this order could be obeyed Sir Jealous 
entered. 

" Hold there, Patch ; where are you going ?" he 
demanded. " I'll have nobody stir out of this 
room till after supper. Hark ye, daughter, do 
you know this hand ?" He showed Isabinda the 
letter. 

"Hand, sir?" she asked, innocently. "What 
odd writing. Do you understand it ?" 

"I wish I did." 

" Then I know no more of it than you." 

" Ah, sir, where did you get that ?" cried Patch. 
" That paper is mine." She snatched it abruptly 
from his hand. 

"Yours, mistress?" he queried. 

"Yes, sir; it is a charm for the toothache, — 1 
have worn it these seven years. How could I 
have dropped it ? I was charged never to open 
it, and I do not know what will happen from your 
opening it." 

" The deuce take your charm ! Is that all ? 
Burn it, woman, and pull out your next aching 
tooth." 



THE BUSYBODY. 139 

The easy settlement of this difficulty, however, 
was far from relieving the two women from their 
anxiety. Charles would surely come, and how 
were they to warn him ? Sir Jealous, who seemed 
suddenly in a musical humor, demanded that they 
should sing, but Isabinda became immediately 
afflicted with a severe cold, while Patch pretended 
to be so frightened about the opening of the charm 
that she vowed she could not remember one sonsr. 
He insisted, however, that Isabinda should play 
and Patch should sing, and accordingly had his 
ears regaled with so frightful a discord that he 
threatened to break the piano about their ears. 

In the midst of the music what the frightened 
women had feared took place : Charles ascended 
to the closet, and opened the door on hearing the 
music, but started hastily back on seeing Sir 
Jealous. 

" Hell and fury !" cried the suspicious father. 
"A man in the closet!" 

"A ghost! a ghost!" screamed Patch; while 
Isabinda, with a shriek of assumed fright, threw 
herself on the floor before the closet door, as if in 
a swoon. 

" The devil ! I'll make a ghost of him, I war- 
rant you!" cried Sir Jealous, trying to get past 
his daughter. 

" Have a care, sir," exclaimed Patch, " you'll 
tread on my lady. Oh, this comes of opening the 
charm! Oh! oh!" 

" I'll charm you, housewife ! Take her from the 



140 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

door, or I'll throw you both down stairs. Come 
out, you rascal!" 

He broke into the closet, in a murderous rage, 
while the women laughed quietly behind his back 
at his discomfiture. 

" He is too late. The bird has flown," said Patch. 

" I was almost dead in earnest with the fright," 
answered Isabinda. 

In a minute more Sir Jealous stamped back, 
livid with anger. 

" The dog has escaped out of the window, for 
the sash is up," he exclaimed. " But though he 
is out of my reach, you are not. Come, Mrs. 
Pander, with your charms for the toothache, get 
out of my house. Go ! — troop ! I'll see you out 
myself; but I'll secure this ghost-seeing young 
lady before I go." 

He pushed Isabinda into a room, locked the 
door, and put the key in his pocket; and then 
hustled Patch to the house-door, driving her into 
the street in spite of her remonstrances. 

As it turned out, however, the angry father had 
worked to his own discomfiture, for the discarded 
duenna was no sooner in the street than she saw 
Charles, who was hovering about the house. In 
a few words she told him what had happened, and 
went on to mention the arrival of the young 
Spaniard, and Sir Jcalous's determination to marry 
oft" his daughter at once. The cunning woman 
now proposed a shrewd scheme. Sir Jealous had 
never seen Don Diego. Charles spoke Spanish, 



THE BUSYBODY. 141 

and could personate him. She had in her pocket 
a letter from his father, which Sir Jealous had 
dropped. From this he could counterfeit a letter 
introducing himself as Don Diego, and by prompt 
action might make Isabinda his wife before the 
Spanish suitor appeared. This scheme promised 
80 well that Charles instantly resolved to adopt it, 
and led his ready-witted confederate to his lodg- 
ings, that they might take the necessary prelimi- 
nary steps. 

While Charles was thus getting into and out of 
difficulties, a similar fortune attended his friend 
Sir George. He took care to present himself in 
good time at the garden-gate rendezvous, and was 
there met by Miranda's servant, who led him by 
secret ways into the house. Here he found him- 
self most agreeably surprised, for on meeting 
Miranda, he found not only that she was no longer 
dumb, but at her first words he recognized the 
voice of the masked incognita, with whose wit 
he was already in love. This discovery filled his 
heart with joy. The two women of his affection 
had become one. And he was the more rejoiced 
when he learned that Miranda had wheedled her 
guardian into making her mistress of her own 
property, and had got him out of the way by send- 
ing him on a false journey to Epsom, on pretence 
that a brother miser there wished to make him 
his executor. 

All was in the best train for the marriage of the 
lovers and the cheating of the miser. But this 



142 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

smiling condition of affairs was destined to be 
quickly clouded over through Marplot's pernicious 
activity. He, inspired by fear that Miranda might 
really shoot his friend Sir George at the garden 
gate, met Sir Francis, and induced him to return 
home. They entered so suddenly, indeed, that 
there was no chance for the lover to escape, and 
the only resource was to hide him behind the 
chimney-board of her room. 

As it turned out, this was a dangerous hiding- 
place. Sir Francis was eating an orange, and de- 
sired to throw the peel into tiie hearth. Miranda, at 
a loss how to hinder him from disturbing the board 
that concealed her lover, finally protested that 
she had a monkey shut up there, which had just 
been sent her, and was too wild to be let loose. 

This invention gave rise to a new trouble. Sir 
Francis was satisfied, but Marplot was not. He 
professed to have a passion for monkeys, and 
insisted so strongly on seeing the animal that the 
distressed girl had to call her guardian to her 
aid. At length, to her great relief. Sir Francis's 
coach was announced, and she got him from the 
room, leaving Marplot there alone. 

The curiosity of the busybody could no longer 
be restrained. He hastened to get a peep at the 
monkey, when out broke Sir George in a tearing 
passion, while the meddler, not recognizing him 
in his fright, started back, with cries of "O 
Lord! thieves! thieves! murder!" 

" Damn you, you unlucky dog !" cried Sir 



THE BUSYBODY. 143 

George. " Show me a way out instantly, or I'll 
cut your throat I" 

" Take that door," cried Marplot, who now 
knew him. " But hold ; first break that china, 
and — I'll bring you off." 

Sir George did as suggested, flinging some 
pieces of china to the floor, and running from the 
room just as Sir Francis and Miranda returned. 

" What is the matter?" cried Sir Francis. 

" I beg you to forgive me," exclaimed Marplot. 
" I only raised the board a little to peep at the 
monkey, when out the creature flew, scratched 
my face, broke that china, and whisked out of 
the window." 

" You meddling rogue !" cried Sir Francis. " Out 
of my house at once ! Call the servants to get 
the monkey again ; I must be away." 

" Don't stay, gardy," said Miranda. " Trust mo 
to bring back my monkey." 

After she had got her guardian fairly off", she 
turned on Marplot with a sharpness that was lit- 
tle to his liking. 

" Who could think you meant a rendezvous 
when you talked of a blunderbuss ?" he exclaimed ; 
"or that you meant a lover when you prated of 
a monkey ? Nobody can be more useful than I 
w^hen I'm let into a secret, nor more unlucky 
when I'm kept out." 

We may pass more rapidly over the succeeding 
circumstances. Before they were ready to leave 
the room Mrs. Patch appeared, and Marplot's 



144 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

curiosity was again excited by a whispered con- 
versation, in which the duenna told Sir George 
of the plot to marry Charles and Tsabinda, and 
asked for his aid in the project. He answered 
that he would be glad to assist, but had a little 
matter of marriage on his own hands, which he 
must get rid of first. 

This was soon accomplished. A half-hour suf- 
ficed to make Sir George and Miranda one in law, 
as they were already one in love. They were 
none too expeditious, as it proved, for the parson 
had but fairly disappeared when Sir Francis 
entered, declaring that he had been cheated by 
some rogue ; for he had met his dying friend on 
the road, alive and well. It was necessary to get 
him out of the house again, so that Miranda 
could complete the work of obtaining the papers 
relating to her estate. To do this she pretended 
that Mrs. Patch had been sent to invite him to 
her lady's wedding, and slily hinted that possibly 
the sight of the happy couple might tempt her to 
make some one else happy. This was enough for 
the uxorious old rogue. He set off in haste, under 
Patch's guidance, leaving Miranda to complete 
her task. 

Meanwhile affairs were proceeding favorably 
at the house of Sir Jealous. Sir George had made 
all haste from his own marriage to aid in that of 
his friend, and accompanied the seeming Spaniard 
to the merchant's house, where Charles, speaking 
good Castilian, offered a letter of introduction, 



THE BUSYBODY. 145 

which Sir Jealous read with great satisfaction. 
Sir Geoi'ge, who had assumed the name of Mean- 
well, stated that his correspondent wished the 
marriage to be performed at once, as he did not 
cai*e to expose his susceptible son to the attractions 
of the English beauties. 

This project fitted very well with the humor of 
the suspicious parent. But one thing remained to 
be done, he said. Where were the five thousand 
crowns which had been promised as a marriage 
dowry on Don Pedro's part ? Here was an un- 
looked-for dilemma which sadly puzzled the con- 
spirators. Sir George hesitated and stammered, 
" that money was dangerous to send by sea, and — 
and " 

" Zounds, say we have brought it in commodi- 
ties," whispered Charles. 

"And so," continued Sir George, taking the 
cue, " he has sent it in merchandise ; tobacco, 
sugar, spices, lemons, and so forth, which can be 
readily turned into money. In the mean time, 
if you will accept my bond " 

" Say no more," exclaimed Sir Jealous. " I 
like Signer Diego's face and your name, and will 
take your word. My daughter shall be brought this 
moment, and the chaplain be sent for immediately." 

The bringing of Isabinda, however, was not an 
easy task. Her lover had had no opportunity to 
acquaint her with his plot, and, thinking that she 
was really to be married to the Spanish suitor, 
she resisted and begged for mercy, till in the end 
Vol. I.— g k 13 



146 TALES raOM THE DRAMATISTS- 

Sir George told the father that he was too harsh, 
and asked that he might try and persuade her. 

The effect of his persuasions was miraculous. A 
minute's whispered conversation so changed the 
young lady's humor that he had to caution her not 
to be too hasty or she would spoil all. What he had 
whispered was, that if she would look upon the 
Spaniard she would see one whom she loved dearl3% 

" She begins to hear reason," said Sir George. 
" The fear of being turned out of doors has done it. 
Speak to her gently, sir, and I'm sure she'll yield." 

Sir Jealous now tried this plan, and found his 
daughter surprisingly tractable. He gave her 
hand to Charles just as the servant announced 
that the parson had arrived. All, so far, was 
going well, and they proceeded in high good 
humor to the parlor, where the ceremony was to 
be performed. But at this critical juncture the 
unhappy genius of Marplot again threatened to 
spoil all. 

That busybody had got on the track of this 
new secret, and by active inquiry had learned 
that Charles had hired a Spanish dress. Seeing 
Whisper near the house of Sir Jealous, he fancied 
that his secretive friend had returned to this 
dangerous locality. To resolve this doubt he 
questioned Thomas, one of the servants of the 
house, asking if a gentleman dressed in a Spanish 
habit was within. 

" There's a Spanish gentleman just going to 
marry our j'oung lady, sir." 



THE BUSYBODY. 14T 

" Are you sure he is Spanish ?" 

" Yes, sir ; he speaks no English." 

" Then it is not him I want. It is an English 
gentleman, in a Spanish dress, whom I am seek- 
ing." 

" Ah !" said Thomas to himself. « Can this be 
an impostor ? I'll inform my master. — Come in, 
sir, and see if it is the j)erson you seek." 

" Lead on, I'll follow you." 

There was soon an abundance of mischief 
afloat. Sir Jealous was called by Thomas from 
the parlor and informed of Marplot's errand, and 
it took that meddlesome individual no long time 
to convince the suspicious merchant that there 
was something wrong. 

" Is there a trick here ?" he exclaimed. " Is 
this truly Don Diego? My heart misgives me 
sorely. Within there — stop the marriage — run, 
Thomas, and call all my servants ! On my life, 
I'll be satisfied that this is Don Pedro's son, 
before he has my daughter." 

This outcry brought Sir George into the room, 
sword in hand. 

"What's the matter here?" he asked. "Ha! 
Marplot here, that unlucky dog !" 

" Upon my soul, Sir George " began Mar- 
plot. 

" Sir George ! Then I am betrayed !" yelled the 
merchant. " Thieves ! traitors ! stop the mar- 
riage, I say " 

"And I say, go on, Mr. Tackum," cried Sir 



148 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

George, as he interposed, with drawn sword. " I 
guard this passage, old gentleman. Stand back, 
dogs, or I'll prick your jackets for you!" he ex- 
claimed, as the servants entered. 

" On him, sirrahs ! I'll settle for this one," and 
the old man fell upon Marplot with his cane. 

At this moment Charles and Isabinda entered, 
hand in hand. 

"Seize her!" cried the enraged father. 

" Touch her if you dare 1" exclaimed Charles, 
fiercely. " She's my wife, and I'll make dog's 
meat of the man that lays hands on her." 

" Ah 1 downright English I" groaned Sir Jealous. 

As he spoke, the outer door opened, and Sir 
Francis, Miranda, and Mrs. Patch entered the 
room. Sir Francis with words of congratulation. 

To his utter surprise, he found himself assailed 
bitterly by Sir Jealous, who accused him of hav- 
ing laid a plot to trick him out of his daughter. 
This was followed by a demand to know what ho 
would give his son to maint mu his new wife on. 

"Trick you!" cried Sir Francis. "Egad, I 
think you designed to trick me ! Look you, gen- 
tlemen, I fancy I shall trick you both. Not a 
penny of my money shall this beggar handle. All 
my estate shall descend to the children of the 
lady you see here." 

" I shall be extremely obliged to you for that," 
said Sir George. 

"Hold, sir, you have nothing to say to this 
lady," exclaimed Sir Francis, testily. 



THE BUSYBODY. 149 

" And you nothing to my wife," answered Sir 
George, as he clasped Miranda's hand. 

"Your wife? What means this, mistress? 
Have you choused me out of my consent ?" 

" Even 80, guardian. But it's my first offence, 
and I hope you'll forgive it." 

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Jealous, with a 
sudden change of humor. " It is some comfort 
to find that you are overreached as well as my- 
self. Will you settle your estate upon your son 
now?" 

•' He shall starve first." 

" Not so, gardy," answered Miranda. " Here, 
Charles, are the writings of your uncle's estate, 
which have been your due these three years." 

"What, have you robbed me, too, mistress? 
I'll make you restore them, hussy." 

" Take care I don't make you pay the ar- 
rears," said Sir Jealous. " It is well it's no worse, 
since it's no better. Come, young man, since you 
have outwitted me, take her, — and bless you 
both." 

" I hope, sir, you'll bestow your blessing too," 
said Charles, kneeling to his father. 

"Do, gardy, and make us happy," pleaded 
Miranda. 

" Confound you all !" cried Sir Francis, rushing 
from the room in a rage. 

" Never mind, Charles. He will come all right 
in the end. We shall all be happy, since this 
gentleman forgives you." 

13* 



150 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" It is my custom to avoid dangers," said Sir 
Jealous ; " but when a thing is past, I have the 
philosophy to accept it." 

"And so everybody is happy but poor Pilgar- 
lick," said Marplot. " What satisfaction shall I 
have for being cuffed, kicked, and beaten in your 
services ?" 

" You have been too busy, friend Marplot ; but 
I'll repay you by making Sir Francis yield you 
your estate." 

"That will make me as happy as any of you." 

And so, at the request of Sir Jealous, who had 
become fully reconciled to the situation, they 
buried the past in a cheerful glass, and all went 
merry as a marriage-bell. 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 

BY GEORGE PAEQUHAR. 



[The 80-called " dramatists of the Eeatoration" 
form a body of playwrights whose works hold a 
high position as dramatic literature, but the best 
of which have lost their hold upon the stage 
through their immorality. These writers include 
Dryden, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Far- 
quhar, Gibber, and Mrs. Centlivre, whose " Busy- 
body" we have just given. As a dramatist, 
Dryden was not successful, and none of his many 
plays have gained a favorable verdict from the 
critics. The spirited comedies of Wycherley and 
Congreve, the ablest of these authors, are too 
deeply immoral for reproduction, while they are 
lacking in the story element, their strength lying 
more in witty repartee than in interest of plot. 
Of all the plays of the period, only those of Mrs, 
Centlivre and Mr. Farquhar hold a place on the 
modern stage. We, therefore, confine our selec- 
tions to these two dramatists. 

George Farquhar was born in Londonderry, 
Ireland, in 1678, educated at Trinity College, 
Dublin, and became an actor on the Dublin stage. 

161 



152 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

He proved an indifferent performer, and left the 
stage through remorse at having injured a fellow- 
actor. Seeking London, he obtained a commission 
in a regiment stationed in Ireland, and in 1698 
produced his first comedy, "Love and a Bottle." 
This proved successful, and be continued to write, 
producing a number of plays, of which two, " The 
Eeeruiting Officer" and "The Beaux Stratagem," 
were far superior to the others, and are still occa- 
sionally played. 

Farquhar's life was an unfortunate one. He 
married a penniless adventuress, supposing her to 
be rich, fell into pecuniary difficulties, sold his 
commission, and died poor in 1706 ; his best play, 
"The Beaux Stratagem," being written during 
his last illness. It proved highly successful, but 
while its wit and invention were fiUinjr London 
with laughter, its author lay dj'ing in poverty. 

Farquhar ranks with the best of our comic 
dramatists, his plays possess much variety of 
humorous incident, and, while not the equal of 
some of his contemporaries in wit, he surpasses 
them in feeling and sentiment. We append the 
story of " The Beaux Stratagem."] 

Mr. Aimwell and Mr. Archer, two London 
gentlemen of reduced fortune and slender ex- 
pectations, had deemed it advisable to leave the 
capital, with the hope of winning wealth in the 
provinces. In this enterprise, not having money 
enough to support them both as gentlemen, or to 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 153 

provide servants, they decided to pursue their 
journey in the capacity of master and servant, 
under the following arrangement. Aimwell was 
to act as master at their first stopping-place, 
Archer at the second, and so on alternately ; it 
being understood that they should equally divide 
the profits of their enterprise, whether these 
profits came from the winning of a rich wife or 
from some other source. 

In due time they reached the town of Lich- 
field, where it fell to the lot of Aimwell to act as 
master and of Archer as servant. Here they 
stopped at an inn kept by one Bonniface, which 
Aimwell entered in rich attire and with an impor- 
tant manner, while Archer followed in the dress 
of a valet, and carrying a portmanteau. 

"There, set down the things," ordered Aim- 
well. " Go to the stable and see that my horses 
are well cared for." 

" I shall, sir," answered Archer, respectfully, 
leaving the room. 

After he had gone, Aimwell entered into a con- 
versation with Bonniface, in which he led him 
cunningly from praise of his ale to information con- 
cerning the rich families of the vicinity. In this 
way be learned that the most important of the 
neighboring people of estate was a rich old widow 
named Lady Bountiful, who spent half her 
income in charity, and was so expert in medicine 
that she cured more people within ten years than 
the doctors killed in twenty. 



154 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

This cbaritablc widow had two children ; a son 
by her first husband, Squire Sullen ; and a daugh- 
ter by her second husband, Sir Charles Bountiful. 
Young Sullen, who had recently married a Lon- 
don lady of birth and beauty, was a brutal dunce, 
given to drink and tobacco, and shamefully neg- 
lecting and ill-treating his youthful wife. The 
daughter, Dorinda, was still unmarried ; " the 
finest woman and the greatest fortune in the 
county," said the inn-keeper. 

This, and much other information, was given 
by Bonniface to his guest, though he took good 
care not to tell him all that he mii^ht have said, 
namely, that his inn was a haunt of highway- 
men, of whom he and his daughter Cherry were 
accomplices. 

After getting rid of the landlord, Aimwell and 
Archer had a private conversation, in which they 
considered their means and plans. They had 
remaining of their stock in trade two hundred 
pounds in money, together with a good outfit in 
horses, clothes, rings, etc. With this supply they 
hoped to gain ten times as much. They decided 
that, if they should fail at Litchfield, their next 
stop would be at Nottingham, where Archer 
should play master and Aimwell servant. They 
would reverse again at Lincoln, and again at 
Norwich. If by that time Venus or Plutus still 
failed them, they decided to embark for Holland, 
and try their fortune with Mars, by joining the 
army there. 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 155 

Their conference ended, Airawell gave in charge 
to the landlord the strong box containing their 
money, saying : " Your house is so full of 
strangers that I believe this will be safer in your 
custody than in mine ; for when this fellow of 
mine gets drunk he minds nothing. The box 
contains a little over two hundred pounds; if you 
doubt this, I'll count it to you after supper. Be 
sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's 
warning, for my affairs ai*e a little dubious at 
present, and I may have to be gone in half an 
hour. Order your hostler to keep my horses 
ready saddled ; and, above all, keep this fellow 
from drink, for he is the most insufferable sot. 
Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber." 

After the two had gone, Bonniface called his 
daughter Cherry and gave the strong box into 
her charge, telling her of his guest's orders to 
keep his horses ready saddled, since he might 
have to set out at a minute's warning. 

" Ten to one, then, he is a highwayman !" ex- 
claimed the daughter. 

" A highwayman ? On my life, girl, you have 
hit it ! This box holds his last booty. If we can 
find him out, the money is ours." 

" He don't belong to our gang," said Cherry. 

" What horses have they ?" 

*' The master rides a black." 

" A black ? As I live, it is the ' man upon the 
black mare !' Since he don't belong to our fra- 
ternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience. 



156 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

I don't think it lawful to harbor any rogues but 
my own. But we must have proofs, Cherry. 
The servant loves drink, and may love women. 
I'll ply him the one way, and you may the other." 

The latter part of the bargain was one to which 
Miss Cheny affected to be by no means inclined. 
Not many minutes elapsed before the counterfeit 
footman met her, and, attracted by her bright 
eyes and pretty face, proceeded to make love to 
her with all the assurance of a London gallant. 
He found the pretty barmaid, however, far from 
ready to listen to his advances; she scornfully 
giving him to understand that she looked higher 
than to a footman, and disdainfully bidding him 
to keep to his own sphere, and cease to annoy 
her with his professions. 

Yet the pretty Cherry was far from being so 
disdainful at heart as' she was in words. She 
suspected Archer of being more than he seemed, 
and her susceptible heart was touched more 
deeply by the ardor of his love-making than she 
cared to admit. 

Night had fallen while these events were in 
progress. In the early darkness a new guest rode 
up to the inn, but by the rear instead of the front, 
and, having himself stabled his horse, cautiously 
entered. He was a dark-skinned, black-whiskered 
man, his face half hidden by a high collar and a 
slouched hat. 

"Landlord," hts called, looking around him 
heedfully, "is the coast clear?" 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 157 

"Is it you, Mr. Gibbet?" asked Bonniface. 
"What's the news?" 

"Ask no questions. Here, my dear Cherry." 
He gave her a bag. "Two hundred sterling 
pounds. Lay them with the rest. And here are 
some other trifles ; a diamond necklace ; a gold 
watch ; two silver-hilted swords : I took them 
from fellows who never show any part of their 
sword but the hilt." 

"Hark ye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?" 
asked Bonniface. 

" They'll be here to-night." 

" Do you know of any other gentlemen of the 
pad on this road ?" 

" No." 

"I fancy that I have two that lodge in the 
house just now." 

" Aha ! what marks have they of the trade ?" 

" The one talks of going to church." 

" That's suspicious, I confess." 

"The other pretends to be a servant. "We'll 
call him out and pump him." 

" With all my heart," answered Gibbet. 

Archer, or Martin, as he had called himself, 
proved rather a dry well to the pumping of these 
worthies. He came forward singing, as he combed 
a periwig; and he answered all inconvenient 
questions with a stave of song. 

" Whose servant are you, friend ?" asked Gibbet. 

" My master's." 

" But pray, sir, what is your mastei^'s name ?" 

14 



158 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Name, sir? Tall-le-dall I This is the most 

obstinate curl." 

"Yes, his name." 

" Tall-lal-lal ! — I never asked him his name in 
my life." 

" Pray, then, which way does he travel ?" 

" On horseback." 

" Upwards or downwards, I mean ?" 

"Downwards, I fear. Tall-lal-le-dal," and Mas- 
ter Martin combed on with provoking ease. 

" What think you now ?" asked Bonniface, 
privately, of Gibbet. 

" Old offenders. He could not be more cautious 
before a judge." 

After his questioners had left him, Archer stood 
laughing to himself over their discomfiture, but 
greatly puzzled to know their purpose. Bonni- 
face had addressed Gibbet with the title of cap- 
tain, but the shrewd Londoner was not so easily 
deceived. 

As he stood lazily combing the periwig and 
deeply cogitating, Cherry returned, quite ready 
in her heart to tell him the secret of the inn if 
in return she could gain his love. A few questions 
satisfied her that he did not suspect the profession 
of the mock captain, and that she might have 
the merit of the discovery for her own. A lively 
chat followed, at the end of which Cherry laugh- 
ingly told her would-be lover that he might as 
well give up his play of footman, since his lan- 
guage and dress were in the plainest contradiction. 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 159 

Thus cornered, the cunning fellow confessed, in 
part, the truth ; admitting that he had been born 
a gentleman, but was reduced by necessity to the 
position of servant. 

" Take my hand, then," said Cherry. " Promise 
to marry me before you sleep, and I'll make you 
master of two thousand pounds." 

" How, — two thousand pounds ! But an inn- 
keeper's daughter ! In faith — I " 

" Then you won't marry me ?" 

« I would, but " 

" Oh, sweet sir, you're fairly caught," laughed 
Cheriy. " Don't tell me that any gentleman who 
would bear the scandal of wearing a livery would 
refuse two thousand pounds, even under harder 
conditions than I offer. No, no, sir. I see that 
your play of servant is but a farce." 

" Fairly bit, by Jupiter ! But have you actu- 
ally two thousand pounds ?" 

" I have my secrets as well as you. When you 
are more open I shall be more free. Don't fear 
that I will do anything to hurt you, — but beware 
of my father." With this mysterious warning she 
left the room. 

" So," said Archer, " we are likely to have as 
many adventures in our inn as Don Quixote 
had in his. Let me see, — two thousand pounds. 
If she would only promise to die when the money 
was spent. But an inn-keeper's daughter ! Ay, 
there's the rub ; my pride won't stomach that." 

Leaving him to decide this difficult question, we 



160 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

must betake ourselve to another locality, the house 
of Lady Bountiful. Here we find Mrs. Sullen 
pouring into the ears of her sister-in-law Dorinda 
bitter compldints against her stupid and brutish 
husband. She would apply for a divorce, she de- 
clared, but had no cause of complaint that would 
hold good in a court of law. She went on to say 
that if she had him in London she might j^rovoke 
him to love by rousing his jealousy ; but in the 
country, even this resource was wanting. 

"I fear," replied Dorinda, "that there is a 
natural aversion on his side ; and, if the truth 
were known, you don't come far behind him." 

" I own it ; we are united contradictions, fire and 
water. Eut if I could bring the man even to dis- 
semble a little kindness, I should be more content." 

" Take care, sister. In seeking to rouse him to 
counterfeit kindness, you might awake him to a 
real fury." 

" What then ? Anything would be better than 
to have him a stupid log, as he is now. I want 
your aid, sister. The French count, Bellair, is to 
dine here to-day. I have devised a little farce, 
which I hope may not end in a tragedy. I shall 
lead the count on to make love to me. You must 
post my husband where he can hear it all. If the 
man has a grain of natural feeling in him this 
must stir him up to something." 

"To bloodletting, maybe," answered Dorinda. 
" I don't like your plot, — nor your count either, 
for that matter." 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 161 

" You like nothing, girl, in the form of a man. 
Tour time has not come yet. Love and death 
are alike: their time to strike home is sure to 
arrive. You'll pay for all this one day. But 
come, sister, it is almost time for church." 

Little did Dorinda imagine that the time for 
love, of which Mrs. Sullen had spoken, would 
come that very day, and that her fate awaited 
her in the church to which she was now pre- 
paring to go. 

For Aimwell, in his purpose of marrying an 
heiress, had conceived the idea that a country 
church was just the place to begin his campaign. 

"The appearance of a stranger in a country 
church draws as many gazers as a blazing star," 
he said. " A train of whispers runs buzzing 
round the congregation: 'Who is he? Whence 
comes he ? Do you know him ?' Then I tip the 
verger half a crown. He leads me to the best 
pew in the church. I pull out my snuff-box, 
turn myself around, bow to the bishop or the 
dean, single out a beauty, rivet both eyes on her, 
and show the whole church my concern by my 
endeavor to hide it. After the sermon, the whole 
town gives me to her for a lover, and by pei'- 
suading the lady that I am dying for her, the 
tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in 
love with me." 

" Instead of riveting your eyes on a beauty, 
try to fix them on a fortune. That's our busi- 
ness at pi-esent," warned Archer. 
Vol. I.— I U* 



162 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Pshaw, no woman can be a beauty without a 
fortune. Let me alone to aim at the right target." 

Aimwell proved correct in his opinion of his 
own judgment, for he selected an heiress in the 
beauty to whom he devoted his attention during 
that day's church service. Dorinda Bountiful 
was the goal of his earnest and languishing looks ; 
and as for her, she did not wait for the town's 
opinion to form her own, but left the church with 
a palpitating heart, and a fancy warmly set upon 
the handsome stranger who had gazed upon her 
so devotedly. 

Her fate, indeed, had come to her at last, as 
she admitted to Mrs. Sullen, after the latter had 
shrewdly questioned her. The hitherto cold- 
hearted lady had fallen deepl}'- and desperately 
in love, and was but fairly home from church 
when she sent Scrub, Mr. Sullen's servant, to 
try and learn who the gentleman was. Scrub 
returned in due time, with a reply that was not 
very satisfactory. Nobody knew who the stranger 
was or where he came from, and about all he had 
been able to learn was, that the footman dressed 
almost like a gentleman, and talked French glibly 
with Count Bellair's servants. 

" We have a great mind to know who this 
gentleman is, — only for our satisfaction," said 
Dorinda. " You must go. Scrub, and invite his 
footman hither to drink a bottle of your ale. We 
will drop in by accident and ask the fellow some 
questions." 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 163 

"Well devised," said Mrs. Sullen. "Here ia 
the country any stranger is company, and if we 
cannot learn what we would directly, we must 
indirectly. Go, Scrub, do as you are told." 

Cupid, in the present instance, had done hia 
work better than to waste his only arrow upon 
the lady. He had reserved one for the gentle- 
man ; and though Aimwell was too old a lover to 
be wounded at first sight so deeply as Dorinda, 
his heart had not escaped, and his looks at 
church had in them something warmer than cold- 
blooded interest. As he and Archer wei-e talk- 
ing over the matter, a message came from Scrub 
to the latter, desiring that his honor would go 
home with him and taste his ale. 

"Aha! ray turn comes now!" cried Archer, 
gayly. " You say there's another very handsome 
lady in that house ?" 

" Yes, faith." 

" Then I'm in love with her ah-eady." 

" But what becomes of Cherry ?" 

" Cherry must wait until she grows riper." 

Archer was not long in finding his way to the 
pantry of Scrub the butler, where they sampled 
the Bountiful ale together till both of them had 
rather more than was good for them. The shrewd 
Archer, however, was not so tipsy as he pretended 
to be. It was his purj)ose to extract from Scrub 
all the secrets of the family, which he fairly suc- 
ceeded in doing, so far as the loose-tongued butler 
■was acquainted with them. In return, he gave 



164 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Scrub a piece of news of his own invention, viz. : 
that his master was really the Lord Viscount Aim- 
well, who had recently fought a duel in London 
and dangerously wounded his opponent ; and that 
he was hero now in hiding till he should learn 
whether the man had died or not. 

This interesting piece of invented information 
was not long in reaching the ladies. Gipsey, their 
maid, had listened to the conversation betweea 
the butler and his visitor; and on hearing this 
imaginary news, she made all haste to retail it to 
her mistresses, much to their satisfaction. 

"I have heard of Lord Aim well," said Mrs. 
Sullen; "but they say his brother is the finer 
gentleman." 

" That is impossible, sister," answered Dorinda. 

" At any rate, they say he is very rich and very 
close." 

" No matter for that, if I can creep into his 
heart I'll open his pocket, I warrant him. I wish 
we could talk with this fellow," 

"So do I. Let us try it; I see no harm in 
it." 

There was more harm in it for Mrs. Sullen than 
she dreamed of, for in the conversation with the 
two servants that followed, there was something 
in Archer's manner and style of talk that seemed 
to her above his station, and much in his form 
and face that touched her susceptible heart. This 
favorable impression was added to by a song 
which he gave them at Scrub's suggestion ; and 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM, 165 

it reached its climax in his refusal to take some 
money which she offered him. 

" Did you ever see so pretty a well-bred fellow ?" 
asked Dorinda, after Archer had left them. " I 
doubt if he is a servant. He may be some 
gentleman, my lord's friend, perhaps his second, 
who has chosen to keep him company in this dress 
to complete the disguise." 

"It is, it must be, and it shall be so !" exclaimed 
Mrs. Sullen ; " for I like him." 

" What! better than the count?" 

" The count will do very well to serve me in 
my design on my husband. But I should like 
this fellow better in a design on myself." 

" But now, sister," said Dorinda, " for an inter- 
view with this lord and this gentleman : how shall 
we bring it about ?" 

"Leave that to them. If Lord Aim well loves 
or deserves you, he'll find a way to see you. My 
business comes first in order. Have j^ou prepared 
your brother for my assault upon his jealousy ?" 

" Yes ; and the count is at hand. Look you do 
it neatly." 

The project referred to was the one we have 
already mentioned, by which Mrs. Sullen hoped 
to rouse the jealous anger of her husband. In 
pursuance of this plot, Dorinda had advised her 
brother to pretend that he would be out late, and 
then to slip round and hide himself in the closet, 
where he would hear something to surprise 
him. This he did, and was but fairly in the 



166 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

closet when Count Bellair appeared in the room 
in company with Mrs. Sullen, to whom he pro- 
ceeded to make love with all the ardor of his 
French descent. 

They were interrupted by the husband, who 
broke from his closet pretending to be in a violent 
rage. Yet his manner showed such lack of real 
warmth and passion that it was evident the design 
had failed. The man was too dull to be roused 
either to rage or jealousy; or had so little love 
for his wife that he cared not who might replace 
him in her affections. 

The poor woman was so vexed by the failure 
of her deep-laid scheme that she vented some of 
her displeasure on her unconscious accomplice, 
telling the count that she had only been amusing 
herself with him, and that she herself had ar- 
ranged that her husband should be in the closet. 

"And so, madam," exclaimed the enra<i'ed 
Frenchman, " while I was telling you twenty 
stories to part you from your husband, begar, 
I was bringing you together all the while." 

" I ask your pardon, count ; but I hope this will 
give you a taste of the virtue of the English ladies." 

" Begar, madam, their virtue may be vera great ; 
but, garzoon, their honesty be vera little," and 
the count took himself away in a rage. 

"While this plot of the ladies was in process of 
execution, a stratagem was being devised by the 
gentlemen that was likely to prove more success- 
ful. Mrs. Sullen had advised Dorinda to leave 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 167 

Lord Aimwell alone ; if he loved her he would 
find a way to see her. She was right, though as 
\'et the movements of the adventurers were gov- 
erned more by interest than love. At a late hour 
of that day, while Lady Bountiful was prescribing 
for the ailments of a sick countryman, and Mrs. 
Sullen laughing at her rustic cure-all remedies, 
Dorinda rushed up to them in a state of high ex- 
citement, closely followed by Archer, who eagerly 
asked for Lady Bountiful. He proceeded to beg 
for the goodness and skill of the old lady in favor 
of his poor master, who he feared was on the point 
of death. 

" Your master ! where is he ?" 

" At your gate, madam. Drawn by the appear- 
ance of your handsome house, he walked up the 
avenue to view it nearer, when he was suddenly 
taken ill with I know not what. Down on the 
cold ground he fell, and there he lies." 

He could have said nothing more likely to rouse 
Lady Bountiful's sympathy. The servants were 
hastily called, and the whole house was soon fly- 
ing to Aim well's assistance, with the exception of 
Dorinda, who was kept motionless by agitation, 
and of Mrs. Sullen, who was held still by suspicion. 

" Oh, sister 1" exclaimed Dorinda, " my heart 
flutters so strangely ! I can hardly forbear run- 
ning to his assistance." 

" I'll lay ray hfe he desires your assistance more 
than he deserves it," answered Mrs. Sullen. " Did 
not I tell you that my lord would find a way to 



168 TALES FROM THE DKAMATISTS. 

como to you ? Love is his distemper, and you 
must be the physician." 

Mrs. Sullen had guessed correctly ; the illness 
was a stratagem to obtain admittance to the 
house; yet Aimwell played his part of sick man 
very neatly. He seemed quite insensible as they 
carried him in a chair to the house, his eyes being 
closed and his hands clinched. But when Do- 
rinda, at Archer's suggestion, took his hand and 
sought to open it, he caught her hand in his grasp 
and squeezed it unmercifully ; much to the sur- 
prise of Lady Bountiful, who opened the other 
hand with ease. 

To the anxious inquiries of the benevolent old 
lady, Archer replied that his master had been first 
taken ill that morning at church, where something 
aifocted him through the eyes,, with such strange 
severity that he had not yet recovered from it. 
"Whether it was pain or pleasure he could not say. 

While the shrewd fellow was describing this 
affection in a way that made Dorinda's heart beat 
strangely, Aimwell seemed to recover. Opening 
his eyes, he gazed about him in amazement, affect- 
ing to believe that he had died and was now in 
Elysium. He kneeled to Dorinda and kissed her 
hand, addressing her as Proserpine. 

"Delirious, poor gentleman I" exclaimed Lady 
Bountiful. 

" Very delirious, madam," said Archer. 

"Martin's voice? here?" exclaimed Aimwell, 
looking round with a show of surprise. 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 169 

"Here on earth, my lord. How does your 
lordship ?" 

" Lord ? Do you hear that, girls ?" said Lady 
Bountiful, in an aside to her daughters. 

" Where am I ?" asked Aimwell. 

"In very good hands, sir. You were taken 
with one of your old fits, near this benevolent 
lady's house, and she has miraculously brought 
you back to your old self, sir." 

Aimwell professed to be greatly ashamed to 
have given them such trouble, gave Archer two 
guineas for the servants, and declared that he 
must instantly leave, a purpose to which Lady 
Bountiful would not listen. The cold air, she 
said, would surely cause a relapse. She insisted 
on his drinking a glass of her favorite healing 
cordial, and then advised him to walk about and 
see the house, which the young ladies would take 
pleasure in showing. He would see some tolerably 
good pictures. 

"Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to 
wait on you ?" asked Aimwell. " He understands 
pictures very well." 

" We understand originals as well as he does 
pictures," answered Mrs. Sullen ; " so he may come 
along." 

This walk through the house, which the con 
federates had so cunningly led up to, completed 
the conquest. Leaving Mrs. Sullen to the care 
of Archer, Aimwell wandered off alone with 
Dorinda, and made love to her with a warmth 
H 15 



170 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

that was far from counterfeit, and which quite 
placed hor bcart in his keeping. 

Meanwhile Archer was assailing the heart of 
Mrs. Sullen with little less ardor, and quite as 
much success. The poor woman bewailed to 
herself her sad lot, in being tied to a brute when 
she might have won the love of a man like this, 
and burst into tears afterwards when Dorinda 
warmly confessed her happiness in Aimwell's 
love. 

" Your angel has been watchful for your happi- 
ness," sobbed the poor wife, " while mine has slept 
regardless of his charge. Long smiling years of 
joy for you, but not one hour for me." 

" Come, my dear, let us talk of something else." 

" I can think of nothing else," said Mrs. Sullen, 
her eyes still wet. " To be tied for life to a dull 
brute like that ! But I expect my brother here 
to-night or to-morrow. He was abroad when my 
father married me to this log. Perhaps he may 
find a way to rid me of my burden." 

" I hope to heaven he may," answered Dorinda. 

This hope was nearer realization than the 
speaker had any idea of. Eventful as that day 
had been, the night was destined to be as fruitful 
of events. In the first place, Bonnifiice. the 
scoundrelly inn-keeper, had arranged with Gibbet 
and his companions to rob Lady Bountiful's 
house, and they awaited the midnight hour to 
put their scheme in execution. In the second 
place, Count Bellair, still angry at Mrs. Sullen for 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 171 

the trick she had played on him, determined to 
have an opportunity at love-making in the 
absence of her husband, and bribed her maid 
Gipsey to aid him in playing the part which 
Sullen had played, — that of being concealed in a 
closet. This scheme, however, came to the knowl- 
edge of Archer, and he contrived to get inti'O 
duced into the house in place of the count, with 
the double purpose of discomfiting the French- 
man, and gaining another opportunity to make 
love to the lady, who had made almost as deep 
an impression upon his heart as Dorinda had upon 
that of his companion. 

Nor was this the whole of the complication. 
Sir Charles Freeman, the brother whom Mrs. 
Sullen expected, made his appearance at a late 
hour of the evening, in a coach and six, at Bonni- 
face's inn. Here he asked questions about Mr. 
Sullen's family, and found that the young squire 
himself was then at the inn, engaged in deep 
potations with a constable, a barber, and various 
other of the same sort of boon companions. 

"I find my sister's letters gave me the true 
picture of her spouse," said Sir Charles, in dis- 
gust, after having requested an intei'view with 
the squire. 

As he stood there Sullen entered, and a conver- 
sation ensued, in which the sot declared without 
hesitation his dislike for his wife. 

" "Why don't you part with her, then ?" asked 
Sir Charles. 



172 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Will you take her off my bands ?" 

" With all my heart." 

"Then you shall have her to-morrow, and a 
venison pasty into the bargain," declared Sullen. 

" You'll let me have her fortune, too?" 

" Fortune ! Why, sir, I have no quarrel with 
her fortune. I only hate the woman, and none 
but the woman shall go." 

While this conference was being held in the 
tap-room, one of a different character was taking 
place in another part of the house. Cherry 
knocked at Aim well's door, and when ho appeared, 
told him, in an agitated manner, of the projected 
burglary, saying that the gang of rogues hud set 
out to rob Lady Bountiful's house. 

She had sought his servant Martin to tell him, 
but could not find him anj^where about the inn. 

" No matter about him, child. Will you guide 
me to this lady's house ?" 

"With all my heart, sir. My Lady Bountiful 
is my godmother, and 1 love Miss Dorinda so 
well " 

"Dorinda! The name inspires me, the glory 
and danger shall all be my own. Come, let me 
but get my sword ; then lead on." 

The alarm was given none too soon. The burg- 
lars were in the house before Aimwell got there. 
Bonniface had assured them that they would find 
none but women in the place, with the exception 
of Scrub, who was an arrant coward, and that 
the plate and money to be found would make 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 173 

them all rich. In this he calculated in ignorance 
of the fact. Archer, unknown to the villanous 
landlord, was concealed in the house, in the closet 
which the Frenchman had intended to occupy, 
and was brought in haste from his place of con- 
cealment by Scrub, who rushed into the room 
with a frightened ejaculation of "Thieves! 
murder ! robbery !" 

"What ails you, fool?" exclaimed Archer, 
shaking him violently. 

" Oh, pray, sir, spare all I have, and take my 
life !" cried Scrub, kneeling. 

" What has happened ? What does the fellow 
mean ?" asked Mrs. Sullen, who was in the room 
on Scrub's entrance. 

" Thieves have broken into the house !" ex- 
claimed the scared butler. " This is one of them ! 
We shall be all robbed and murdered !" 

" Hold your tongue, idiot !" cried Archer, sternly. 
" Don't you know me ? Ha ! I see a dark lantern 
in the gallery ! Can you face the fellow, madam ? 
Scrub and I will hide, and leap upon him un- 



awares." 



" Yes. Hide quickly." 

Hardly had the two men disappeared when 
Gibbet, the highwayman, entered the room, pistol 
and dark lantern in hand, and threatened to shoot 
the lady through the head if she should make a 
noise. Laying his lantern and pistol on the table, 
he proceeded to despoil her of her rings and neck- 
lace, and then demanded her keys. 

15* 



174 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

While he was thus employed, Archer slipped 
forward, seized the pistol, and then, catching the 
villain by the collar, tripped up his heels and laid 
him flat on his back. He held the pistol to his 
breast. 

"Don't kill me, sir," prayed Gibbet, frightened 
by Archer's stern looks. 

*' How many are there of them, Scrub ?" 

" Five and forty, sir." 

" Then I must kill this one, to have him out of 
the way." 

" Hold, sir; on my honor there are but three of 
us," protested Gibbet. 

" Come, rogue, if you have a short praj^er, say 
it." 

" Pray, sir, don't kill him !" pleaded Mrs. Sullen. 
" You scare me as much as him." 

Scrub, who had run hastily out, at this moment 
returned with Foigai'd, an Irish priest, who was 
connected with Count Bellair, and who happened 
to be in the house. 

" Here, then ; I suppose Scrub and Dr. Foigard 
can manage this one. Take him into the cellar 
and bind him. Here is the pistol ', if he offers to 
resist shoot him through the head, and come back 
to me as soon as you can." 

They did as ordered, and Archer was about to 
speak to Mrs. Sullen, when loud shrieks came 
from the other part of the house. 

" Ha !" he cried, " the rogues are at work with 
the other ladies. I'm vexed I parted with the 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 175 

pistol. But I must fly to their aid. "Will you 
stay here, madam ?" 

" Oh, no, dear sir," she cried, seizing his arm 
nervously. " I will not let you leave me." 

On reaching the other part of the house, they 
beheld the remaining two rogues, with drawn 
swords, dragging Lady Bountiful and Dorindafrom 
their rooms, and loudly demanding their keys and 
jewels. Before Archer could reach the spot, 
however, Aimwell made his appearance, sword in 
hand, and fiercely engaged the scoundels, who re- 
leased the ladies and tui-ned upon him. 

" Oh, had I but a sword to help this brave man !" 
exclaimed Dorinda. 

" I have one, madam," said Archer. " Hold, my 
lord; every man his bird." And he rushed to 
Aimwell's aid. 

The two friends fought with such skill and 
resolution that in a very few minutes the rogues 
were disarmed and hurled to the floor. 

" Shall we kill them ?" asked Archer. 

*' 1^0 ; we'll bind them," said Aimwell. 

This was soon done, with a rope which the vil- 
lains had themselves brought. By the time they 
were secured, Scrub reappeared, with a great show 
of resolution. 

" Well, Scrub, have you secured your Tartar ?" 
asked Archer. 

" Yes, sir, and I left the priest and him disput- 
ing about religion." 

"Then carry off these gentlemen to reap the 



176 TALES FROM THE DRAJVIATISTS. 

benefit of the controversy," said Aimwell, deliv- 
ering his prisoners to the butler. 

"Now is your time," said Archer to Aimwell. 
while the ladies were talking aside. " Press her 
this minute to marry you, while she continues to 
worship 3'ou as a hero, and the tide of her admira- 
tion is at high flood. The priest is in the cellai', 
and will not refuse." 

"How shall I get her away without being 
observed? Hal you bleed, Archer! You are 
hurt !" 

"A scratch. I am glad of it; it will do the 
business. Can you find me a bandage, Lady 
Bountiful ? I am wounded." 

A chorus of pitying exclamations followed this 
statement, and while the old lady ran for lint and 
ointments, Mrs. Sullen hovered anxiously about 
him whom her heart admitted as a lover. Aim- 
well took ready advantage of the opportunity to 
lead Dorinda away, making ardent love to her as 
he went. It needed, indeed, few words, while her 
heart pleaded so strongly in his favor, to induce 
Dorinda to consent to an immediate marriage 
with her heroic preserver, as she deemed him. 
But before yielding a full consent she bade him 
consider: he knew her not; she scarcely knew 
herself; there might be much concealed in her 
which he should learn. 

This honest avowal had an effect different from 
that which the lady expected. It touched Aim- 
well's heart, and roused his conscience. In a 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 177 

moment of remorse he acknowledged that he, not 
she, was the counterfeit, that he had deceived her, 
and was but the penniless brother of the noble- 
man whose title he had claimed. Yet, if he ex- 
pected that this avowal would destroy his hopes, 
he knew not love. Dorinda broke out in a pane- 
gyric on his honesty, and continued : 

" I was proud, I admit, of your wealth and title, 
but now am prouder that you lack them, since 
they leave you such nobility of soul. Now I can 
show that my love was not based on pride, but is 
the sterling coinage of the heart." 

Before more words could be said, Gipsey en- 
tered, and drawing the lady aside, wispered earn- 
estly with her for a few minutes. 

" Ah ! is it so ?" she said. '• Pray excuse me, 
Mr. Aimwell. I shall return in a short time." 
And she walked from the room, without a glance 
at the lover whom she left in such cruel perplexity. 

As she went out at one door, Archer entered at 
the other, eager to learn if the marriage ceremony 
had been performed. On learning that his plan 
had failed through the inconvenient honesty of 
his confederate, he grew angry, and declared that 
their compact was at an end. 

"It was your scheme, Mr. Aimwell; and you 
have ruined it. Henceforth I'll seek my fortune 
by myself I'd sooner change places with one of 
the ros:ues we have bound than stay here to bear 
the scornful smiles of the pi'oud knight whom I 
once held as my equal." 
Vol. I. — m 



178 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Knight I What knight?" 

"Sir Charles Freeman, brother to Mrs. Sullen. 
He has just arrived. It is a cursed night's work, 
and I leave you to make the best of it." 

Archer's angry withdrawal was prevented by 
the hasty entrance of Dorinda, who came forward 
with a face covered with smiles. 

" Come, my dear lord," she cried. " I fly with 
impatience to your arms. Bring the priest you 
spoke of. I am yours." 

" My lord ! No, no, Dorinda, call me not that. 
I'll marry you gladly, but not as a counterfeit." 

" You shall not, indeed, but as the true Lord 
Aimwell ; and not in this clandestine manner, but 
in the face of the whole world." 

"What do you mean?" demanded Aimwell, in 
^ great perplexity. 

" Here is my witness that I speak but the truth." 

As she spoke Sir Charles Freeman and Mrs. 
Sullen entered. 

" My dear Lord Aimwell, I wish you joy," was 
Sir Charles's greeting. 

"Of what?" 

" Of your honor and estate. Your brother died 
the day before I left London. All your friends 
have written to you to Brussels ; but I am happy 
to be the first to bring you the news." 

" By Jupiter I" cried Archer, " hero is a strange 
turn in the wheel of fortune. My lord, by our 
bargain, you owe me five thousand pounds, which 
is half this ladj^'s fortune." 



THE BEAUX STRATAGEM. 179 

" We'll divide stakes," answered Aimwell. 
" You may take the whole fortune, or the lady, as 
you will." 

" How, my lord !" exclaimed Dorinda, startled. 
" Do I hear aright ?" 

" Trust him, madam," answered Archer ; *' he 
knows very well that I'll take the money. Give 
you up ! He'd sooner yield his new-born title." 

This happy turn in the tide of events nearly 
brings our story to a close. Yet there remain 
some circumstances of importance to our other 
characters to relate. As they stood conversing, 
a countryman entered with a box and a letter, in- 
quiring for "one Martin." The box proved to be 
that which the two friends had left in the land- 
lord's hands, and the letter was one from Cherry 
to Archer, stating that her father had fled, from 
fear of being informed on by the captive thieves. 
She had remained behind, and was ready to 
deliver herself into the hands of her dear Martin, 
with a much larger sum than was in his strong 
box. 

" There's a billet-doux for you !" exclaimed 
Archer. " Come, Aimwell, you must persuade 
your bride to take Cherry into her service." 

" I shall be glad to do so," said Dorinda. 

" And now, friends all," said Sir Charles, " I 
have a design in view in which I beg your assist- 
ance ; no less a one than that of sepai-ating my 
unfortunate sister from her worthless husband." 

" Assist you !" exclaimed Archer. " Shall I 



180 TALES FEOM THE DRAMATISTS. 

run the fellow through ? Or can you suggest any- 
more peaceable means ?" 

"The law's blunt end may work better than 
the sword's sharp point," smiled Sir Charles. " A 
divorce will serve as well as a duel. I have had 
a talk with Sullen, and ho is quite ready to give 
her up." 

The event proved as he had stated. Sullen had 
a native contempt for a respectable woman, which 
had grown into a dull hatred of his wife, and 
consented freely to a divorce, while, as for the 
lady's fortune, Sir Charles succeeded in making 
him disgorge that also. 

Thus ended that eventful night. What followed 
might be left to the reader's imagination, but a 
few words will tell it. The new Lord Aimwell 
had grown to love Dorinda as deeply as she loved 
him, and their marriage took place before many 
days, with great state and ceremony. And not 
long afterwards, the separation of Mrs. Sullen 
from her husband being completed by due course 
of law. Archer led that happy lad}- to the altar, 
and the stratagem of the pair of adventurous 
beaux ended in joy for all concerned. 



THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM. 

BY HANNAH COWLEY. 



[" The Beaux Stratagem" may be fitly followed 
by " The Belle's Stratagem" of Mrs. Cowley, a 
work which, while of a lower literary standard, 
has much dramatic merit, and proved highly suc- 
cessful as a play. The authoress, whose maiden 
name was Park house, was born at Tiverton, Eng- 
land, in 1743, was married to Captain Cowley, an 
officer of the East India Company, and died in 
1809. She wrote a considerable number of plays, 
but is known to-day principally by the lively 
comedy above named.] 

Mr. Doricourt, senior, had left a large estate 
to be disposed of in a singular manner. It had 
been arranged, between him and his friend Mr. 
Hardy, that a marriage should take place between 
the son of the former and the daughter of the 
latter when they came of age. So earnest were 
the two fathers in this matter that, lest the young 
people should have other views about matrimony 
when they grew up, the will declared that if ihe 
gentleman declined the marriage, the estate (of 

16 181 



182 TALES FROM THE DRA>LA.TISTS. 

more than eighty thousand pounds) should go to 
the lady, while if she should decline, it would be 
inherited by the gentleman. 

From their infancy, young Master Doricourt 
and young Miss Hardy had been considered as 
made for each other, and their infantile intimacy 
early ripened into a boy and a girl affection. But 
at an early age the youthful lover was sent to the 
continent, where he remained for years. In his 
occasional visits to England he failed to see his 
betrothed, Mr. Hardy having the fancy that it 
would be best to keep them asunder, and leave it 
to his daughter's charms to win the heart of her 
predestined lover when they became of marriage- 
able age. 

This plan had its defects. The j'oung man, in 
his long life abroad, grew so infatuated with the 
easy manner and witty liveliness of the ladies of 
France and Italy as to unfit him for the modest 
reticence of the young ladies of his native land ; 
while his long absence from Miss Hardy weaned 
all his early affection for her from his heart. She, 
on the contrary, having lived a retired life, had 
cherished the memory of her boy lover, and 
looked forward to his return with warm expecta- 
tion, mingled with nervous dread that was likely 
to unfit her for making a favorable first im- 
pression on the sophisticated young gentleman 
from abroad. 

When young Doricourt made his appearance, 
indeed, fresh from Rome, the elegance of his 



THE belle's stratagem. 183 

manner and appointments produced a sensation 
in London. As his friend Courtall said: "His 
carriage, his liveries, his dress, himself, are the 
rage of the day ; and his valet is besieged by- 
levees of tailors, habit-makers, and other minis- 
ters of fashion, to gratify the impatience of their 
customers for becoming a-la-mode de Doricourt." 

This fine gentleman had not forgotten the im- 
portant business that brought him to England. 
If the charms of Miss Hardy had left no im- 
pression upon his soul, those of the eighty thou- 
sand pounds had grown very alluring to his mind. 
His heart was still free from the chains of love, 
and it was with mingled hope and fear that he 
awaited an interview with his betrothed : hope 
that he would find something in her to touch his 
exacting heai't; fear that he would not. The 
results of this interview may be given in a brief 
conversation with his friend Saville : 

" When do you expect Miss Hardy ?" asked 
Saville. 

" The hour of expectation is past," Doricourt 
replied. " I had the honor of an interview this 
morning at Pleadwell's ; where we met at Mr. 
Hardy's request, to sign and seal the necessary 
papers." 

""Well, did your heart leap, or sink, when you 
beheld your betrothed ?" 

" Faith, neither the one nor the other. She's a 
fine girl, so far as flesh and blood goes ; but- " 

"But what?" 



184 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

** Why, she's only a fine girl ; complexion, shape, 
and features; nothing more," 

" Is not that enough ?" 

" No ; she should have spirit, fire, that some- 
thing or nothing which everybody feels, and 
nobody can describe, in the resistless charmers of 
Italy and France. Why, man, I w^as in the room 
half an hour before I could catch the color of 
her eyes ; and every attempt to draw her into 
conversation occasioned so cruel an embarrass- 
ment that I was reduced to the retailing of 
foreign news to her father," 

"So, then. Miss Hardy, with only beauty, 
modesty, and merit, is doomed to the arms of a 
husband who will despise her." 

"Not so, Saville. She has not inspired me 
with a violent passion, I must say ; but I have 
honor, if I have not love." 

" Honor without love is a poor capital to marry 
upon, Doricourt." 

The unfavorable impression which Letitia 
Hardy had made upon her destined husband was 
not paralleled in her case. His charms of person 
and manner had produced a very different effect 
upon her ardent fancy. The girl love with which 
she had parted with him, years before, grow into 
a woman's love when she saw in him all and more 
than her dreams had painted ; his fiace the same, 
yet its every grace finished and its every beauty 
heightened. It was this sentiment, suddenly 
chilled by the cold indifference of his expression, 



N 



THE belle's stratagem. ^ 185 

"which had caused the retiring bashfulness and 
painful embarrassment to which he owed his dis- 
enchantment. 

All this she told to her friend, Mrs. Eackett, on 
her return home, blaming herself bitterly for her 
ill looks and awkward bearing, and him for his 
lack of feeling and sentiment. 

" How mortifying !" she exclaimed, " to find 
myself at the same moment his slave and an 
object of perfect indifference to him." 

" Are you certain of that ? Did 3''0U expect him 
to kneel down before the lawyer, his clerks, and 
your father, to make oath of his admiration of 
your beauty ?" asked Mrs. Eackett. 

"No, but he should have looked as if a sud- 
den ray had pierced him ; he should have been 
breathless, speechless, — for oh, Caroline, all this 
was I !" 

"The more fool you. Do you expect a man 
who has been courted by half the fine women in 
Europe to feel like a girl from a boarding-school ? 
He is your one pretty-faced gentleman ; but he 
has run the gantlet of a million of pretty women, 
child, before he saw you. Such a prize is not to 
be won at sight." 

" I will touch his heart or never be his wife !" 
exclaimed Letitia, warmly. 

They were interrupted at this point by the 
entrance of Mr. Hardj", who was in high good 
humor. He felt sure that Doricourt had fallen 
desperately in love with his daughter, and could 

16* 



186 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

not understand her depression, unless she had 
taken a dishke to her betrothed. 

" Tliere's a man for you !" cried Mrs. Eackett, 
impatiently. " Can't you see that she's over head 
and ears in love with him? And " 

" And he cares no more for me than for this glove 
on my hand," exclaimed Letitia. "But ho shall! 
if there is spirit and invention in woman, he 
shall." 

" Hey day ! what's in the wind now ?" 

" A plan has struck me," she replied, " which, 
if you will not oppose it, flatters me with hopes of 
brilliant success." 

" Oppose it ? Not I, indeed ! What is it ?" 

" Since he does not like me enough, he shall like 
me less. At our next interview I shall manage to 
turn his indiff'erence into positive dislike." 

"Heaven and earth, Letitia, are you serious?" 
exclaimed Mrs. Eackett. " Why seek to make 
him dislike you?" 

" Because it is much easier to convert a senti- 
ment into its opposite than to transform indiffer- 
ence into tender passion." 

" That may be good philosophy ; but I am 
afraid you will find it dangerous practice." 

" I have the strongest confidence in it," said 
Letitia. " Where looks have lost their power, 
we will see what artifice will dw I am in high 
spirits at the thought, and will stake my hopes of 
happiness upon my stratagem." 

With these words she went dancing and singing 



THE belle's stratagem. 187 

from the room, leaving her father and friend 
ignorant of the plot which she had devised, but 
infected with hope by her confidence. 

Before proceeding to describe Miss Hardy's 
plan and how it worked, we must give some atten- 
tion to a number of other persons who will take 
part in our stor}-, and particularly to a newly- 
married couple, Sir George Touchwood and his 
wife, Lady Frances, who had just come up to 
town. Sir George in his bachelor daj^s had led 
a somewhat wild life, in London and Paris, but 
since marrying a country beauty had grown so 
absurdly jealous that he was ridiculed by all his 
old friends. He had kept her in the country as 
long as he could, and, in bringing her up to Lon- 
don, did 80 with many fears of the influence which 
the fashion and folly of the metropolis might 
have on her susceptible and unsophisticated fancy. 

His dread was not without reason. His wife's 
heart had been kept like virgin wax, and was 
ready to be impressed by good or bad influences. 
Among his earliest visitors on reaching town was 
Doricourt, who had heard of his extreme jealousy, 
and took a wicked delight in tormenting him. 
He begged to be introduced to his wife, whose 
beauty and goodness Sir George praised beyond 
measure. 

" Introduce ! — yes, to be sure ! Lady Frances 
is engaged just now, — but another time," stam- 
mered the jealous husband. " How handsome the 
dog looks to-day !" he said, nervously, to himself. 



188 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Another time! I have no other time. This 
is the only hour I can command this fortnight." 

" I am glad to hear that, with all my soul," said 
Sir George, to himself. " So, then, you can't dine 
with us to-day ! that's very unlucky," he continued. 

" Oh, yes, — as to dinner, — I can stretch my time 
that far." 

"Pshaw! I didn't think what I was saying; 
I meant supper. You can't sup with us ?" 

" Whj', that will be more convenient than din- 
ner I How fortunate ! if you had asked me any 
other night I could not have come." 

" To-night ! Gad, now I recollect, we are par- 
ticularly engaged to-night. But to-morrow 
night " 

" Why, look ye. Sir Geoi'ge," exclaimed Dori- 
court, "it is very plain you have no inclination to 
let me see your wife at all. So here I sit." He 
stretched himself at full length on the sofa. 
" There's my hat, and here are my legs. Now I 
shan't stir till I have seen her, and I have no en- 
gagements ; I'll breakfast, dine, and sup with you 
every da}' this Aveek." 

While Sir George stood in dismay, endeavoring, 
by making an open confession of his matrimonial 
relations, to induce Doricourt not to make himself 
too agreeable to the susceptible Lady Frances, a 
servant appeared. 

"Sir, my lady desires " he began. 

"I am particularlj' engaged," answered Sir 
George, shortly. 



THE belle's stratagem. 189 

" That shall be no excuse in the world," cried 
Doricourt, springing from the sofa. "Lead the 
way, John. I'll attend your lady." 

He followed the servant from the room, leaving 
Sir G-eorge in the dilemma of the iish that has 
been suddenly landed from the frying-pan into the 
fire. 

The poor knight's troubles for that day were 
by no means ended. As he stood in nervous in- 
decision, Mrs. Eackett and her friend Miss Ogle 
were announced, and asked to see Lady Frances. 
Here was a chance to get her away from Dori- 
court. She was sent for, and on her entrance 
was warmly greeted by her visitors, who soon 
engaged her in a lively conversation, in which 
they laughed at her homespun ways, and invited 
her to go with them to an exhibition and an 
auction. Afterwards they would take a turn in 
the Park, drive to Kensington, and in the evening 
attend Lady Brilliant's masquerade. 

This promised series of pleasures set the young 
wife's heart in a flutter, and she gladly agreed 
to accompany them if Sir George had no engage- 
ments. At this remark the visitors laughed more 
heartily than ever, ridiculing her for her lack 
of independence, and on Sir George's entrance 
told him that they were, going to rob him of his 
wife for a few hours. 

" Oh, yes !" said Lady Frances, enthusiastically, 
" I am going to an exhibition, and an auction, 
and the Park, and Kensington, and a thousand 



190 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

places. It is quite ridiculous, I find, for mar- 
ried people to be always together. We shall be 
laughed at." 

" I ara astonished !" exclaimed Sir George. " Mrs. 
Eackett, what does the dear creature mean ?" 

The dear creature's meaning was plain enough 
when Mrs. Rackett had got through ; and so was 
Sir George's when he had plainly expressed his 
opinion of fashionable society. There arose a strug- 
gle in Ladj'- Frances's heart between obedience to 
her husband and desire for pleasure, which was 
ended by the appearance of Mi*. Flutter, a light- 
headed scandal-monger, who had a genius for 
making mischief He was not a minute in the 
room before he had let out a secret which all the 
town had laughed at, but which Sir George had 
sedulously concealed from his wife. This was 
that Lady Frances's favorite bullfinch, which she 
supposed had escaped by accident, had been set 
free by her husband, whose insane jealousy ex- 
tended even to her loving attentions to her bird. 

" Is it possible ?" cried Lady Frances, with tears 
of vexation in her eyes. " Oh, Sir George, how 
could you be so cruel as to deprive mo of a 
creature I was so fond of?" 

This information turned the tide of her im- 
pulses. She resolved to go, telling her husband 
pettishly that she was not content to be treated 
like a child, denied what she wished, and then 
pacified with sweet words. 

" Go, madam," he exclaimed, at length ; " give 



THE belle's stratagem. 191 

yourself to the public ; abandon your heart to 
dissipation ; and see if, in the scenes of gayety and 
foll}^ that await you, j^ou can find a recompense 
for the lost afiection of a doating husband." And 
he left the room in strong indignation. 

" I could find it in my heart " began Lady 

Frances. " And yet I won't give up, either. If 
I should in this instance, he'll expect it forever." 

" Now you act like a woman of spirit," said 
Miss Ogle, approvingly. 

" A fair tug between duty and pleasure," 
laughed Flutter. " Pleasure beats, and off we go." 

Lady Frances lost no time in putting her reso- 
lution into effect. In a few minutes she was ready 
to drive off with her visitors, and made with 
them the round of the exhibition and auction, 
where her lack of experience got her into trouble. 
For she found herself followed and rudely stared 
at by Courtall, a man of libertine reputation. 
Troubled by his attentions, she turned on him 
severely, and told him that she was a married 
woman, a piece of information which only made 
him the more persistent. 

"My dear Mrs. Eackett, I am so frightened!" 
exclaimed Lady Frances. " Here is a man making 
love to me, though he knows I am married." 

As she spoke Courtall stepped up, and spoke 
familiarly to her companions, asking Mrs. Eackett 
if she would be at the masquerade. 

" Yes, I go with Lady Frances here," she an- 
swered. 



192 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Bless me !" cried Lady Frances, " I did not 
know this gentleman was acquainted with Mrs. 
Eackett. I behaved so rudely to him." And in 
the warmth of her contrition, she fairly invited 
him to accompany them to Kensington. 

To this, however, Mrs. Eackett would not listen, 
and the ladies drove off, leaving Courtall to in- 
dulge in the fancy that he had made a very easy 
conquest. Not long afterwards he met Saville, 
who had been a lover of Lady Frances before her 
marriage, and in his exultation offered to wager 
that he would make love to that lady at the 
masquerade, and fairly carry her off irom her 
husband. This wager Saville accepted, in his 
full reliance on the virtue and modesty of Lady 
Frances. 

Meanwhile Letitia Hardy was preparing to 
carry out her plot against the cold heart of Dori- 
court. It was her purpose to assume the charac- 
ter of an ignorant and untrained hoiden, with an 
assurance of manner the very reverse of her late 
bashfulness. Mrs. Eackett had agreed to aid 
her in this plot, of which her father was kept in 
ignorance, for fear that he might reveal it. 

Doricourt had promised to call, and on his 
arrival he was met by the artful widovv, who took 
steps to prepare him for Letitia's defects of edu- 
cation, charging her with conceit, pertness, and 
ignorance. This story Doricourt was not inclined 
to believe, saying that he had been assured that 
Miss Hardy was elegant and accomplished. " But 



THE belle's stratagem. 193 

one must allow for a lady's painting," he con- 
cluded. 

" " Here she comes," said Mrs. Eackett. " Her 
elegance and accomplishments will announce 
themselves." 

As she spoke Letitia ran in, exclaiming, — 

" La, cousin, do you know that our John 

Oh, dear heart! I didn't see you, sir." She 
hung her head, and affected to hide behind Mrs. 
Eackett. 

" Fie, Letitia, you are not afraid of Mr. Dori- 
court ?" 

" But he's my sweetheart, and it is impudent to 
look one's sweetheart in the face, you know." 

" You will allow in future for a lady's painting, 
sir," laughed Mrs. Eackett. 

"I am astonished," answered Doricourt, look- 
ing askance at Letitia. 

"Well, hang it, I'll take heart," said Letitia, 
from behind Mrs. Eackett, but in a tone intended 
to reach his ears. " He is but a man, after all, 
cousin, and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a 
wood to be scared by an owl." She advanced to 
Doricourt, making an awkward courtesy. " I 
hear you have been a great traveller, sir. I wish 
you'd tell us all about the fine sights you saw 
when you went over sea." 

" Don't ask him foolish questions," said Mrs. 
Eackett. 

" Hold your tongue ! Sure, I may say what I 
please before I am married, if I can't afterwards. 
Vol. I.— I n 17 



194 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to 
a sweetheart ? He is not the first I have had." 

" Indeed !" said Doricourt. 

" Ob, lud ! he speaks. Why, if you must know, 

there was the curate, at home " And she 

rattled on with a lot of silly statements about 
her love-affairs that quite disgusted her elegant 
suitor. 

To his relief the conversation was soon inter- 
rupted by the entrance of Mr. Hardy, who stood 
aghast on hearing the flow of nonsense that came 
from his daughter's lijjs. 

" Mr. Doricourt," he exclaimed, " maybe you 
take my daughter ^o be a fool, but you are mis- 
taken. She's as sensible a girl as any in Eng- 
land." 

" I am convinced she has a very uncommon 
understanding, sir," answered Doricourt in bitter 
satire. " I did not think he was such an ass," he 
continued to himself. 

This effort of her father to destroy the effect 
of her plot only set Letitia off in a greater out- 
flow of foolish prattle than before, till the poor 
man fairly capitulated to her eloquent absurdity. 

" "What think you of my painting now ?" asked 
Mrs. Eackett, after Letitia and her father had 
gone out. 

" Mere water-colors, madam. The original far 
sui-passes your effort. As for marr^nng this idiot, 
I shall first fly to the end of the world, or seek 
the other world at the end of a pistol." 



THE belle's stratagem. 195 

"Not to-night, at any rate, Mr. Doricourt. You 
must atteud Mrs. Brilliant's masquerade, where 
all the world are going. If you are resolved to 
visit the other world, you may as well first take 
one night's pleasure in this." 

" Faith, that's true ! You are a philosopher, 
Mrs. Eackett. Expect me at the masquerade." 

He left the house with a feeling of disenchant- 
ment concerning his affianced bride, saying to 
himself that he would do as he had threatened 
rather than marry such a woman. After he had 
gone Mr. Hardy returned, and was appealed to by 
Mrs. Eackett not to interfere in his daughter's 
plot. 

" Hang me if I don't, though !" he replied. "I 
foresee what will be the end of it, if I leave you to 
yourselves. If you two choose to play the fool, I 
won't help you, and I shall follow Doricourt to 
the masquerade and tell him all about it." And 
the irate father left the house to jDrocure himself 
a suitable costume. 

We must now step a few hours in advance, to 
the scene of the masquerade, a brilliant affair, in 
whose motley company were embraced all the 
characters of our story, including even Sir George 
Touchwood, who had been induced by his wife to 
attend. He wore a pink domino, trimmed with 
blue, around which costume a complicated intrigue 
had gathered. Courtall, eager to win his wager 
from Saville, and convinced that Lady Frances 
was not to be won by the usual resources of the 



196 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

libertine, had formed a plot to deceive her. Learn- 
ing, through Sir George's servants, the dress he 
was to wear, Courtall had obtained one like it, 
designing to carry her off disguised as her hus- 
band. Unluckily for his plot, Saville had discov- 
ered it and arranged a counterplot. lie brought 
to the masquerade a woman named Kitty Willis, 
who had no reputation to lose, and who wore the 
same disguise as Lady Frances, whom she had 
agreed to personate. 

This intrigue may be first disposed of. It will 
suflSce to say that Lady Frances, who, inexperi- 
enced in such scenes, was at first chai*med by the 
liveliness and brilliancy of the spectacle, became 
at length alarmed by the warnings of one dressed 
as an enchanter, who predicted danger in a solemn 
tone that frightened her. As she turned in haste 
to seek her husband, Courtall entered, dressed like 
Sir George, and suggested that they should leave 
at once, as he was warm and tired. Gaining her 
assent, he left the room to order the carriage. 

The instant he had departed the conjurer re- 
turned, leading a mask in the same dress as Lady 
Frances. Leaving her at the side he advanced 
quickly to the real Lady Frances, and, removing 
his mask, showed the features of Saville. 

"Mr. Saville!" she exclaimed. "I did not 
dream it was you. I am waiting for Sir George, 
who has gone for the carriage. We are going 
home immediately." 

" You are deceived, madam. I warned you of 



THE belle's stratagem. 197 

danger. Sir George may be found in this direc- 
tion." 

" What do you mean, Mr. Saville ?" 

" Be not alarmed ; you have escaped a snare, 
and shall be in safety in a minute." 

She accompanied him, clinging in affright to his 
arm. They had scarcely left the room when 
Courtall returned, and, seeing the counterfeit 
Lady Frances, seized her hand and bade her come 
at once. She obeyed without hesitation, though 
the seemingly successful libertine would have felt 
much less triumphant had he seen the laughing 
face behind the mask. 

Meanwhile Doricourt had found a still more 
cogent reason than her seeming ignorance and folly 
for detesting his betrothal to Miss Hardy. In 
short, he had met a masked lady of such seeming 
grace and beauty, and whose conversation dis- 
played such wit and spirit, that his fancy was 
strangely taken prisoner. She danced a minuet 
with him, and by her grace of movement threw 
still stronger chains about his heart. 

" She dances divinely !" he said to himself. 
" Who can she be ? Somebody must know her, 
and I am bound to learn." 

Shortly afterwards he met Saville, and described 
the lady, but his friend could give him no infor- 
mation. 

" But why are you seeking strange charmers ?" 
he asked. " Where is Miss Hardy ?" 

"Not here, Mrs. Eackett says. Thank Heaven 

17* 



198 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

for that ! Do you know, Saville, I have been 
frightfully disenchanted ? The creature is almost 
an idiot." 

" What ?" 

"You should hear her! What the deuce shall 
I do ? Faith, I think I shall feign myself mad,— 
and then Hardy may be ready to break off the 
engagement." 

"I don't know what you mean," answered 
Saville, in perplexity. " You are mad now, I fear. 
But I must leave you to dream of your mysterious 
stranger." 

Doricourt stood musing after Saville had left, 
revolving in his mind his new idea of feigning 
madness, and so lost in his thoughts that he failed 
to heed what went on about him. 

" You have chosen an odd situation for study," 
said a voice at his elbow. " Fashion and taste 
preside at this spot. They seek to throw their 
delightful spells around you. Yet here you stand 
like a stoic, wrapped in sober reflection." 

He turned, to behold the unknown mask who 
had so strangely attracted him. 

"And you, the most charming being in the 
world, bring me back to reason and admiration. 
From what star have you come?" 

A lively chat succeeded, in which the witty un- 
known held her own with a spirit that surpassed 
his. In the end he grew bold, begged for a kiss, 
and attempted to remove her mask. She fled at 
this, he in close pursuit. 



THE belle's stratagem. 199 

" By heaven, I never was charmed till now !" he 
exclaimed. " English beauty — French vivacity — 
wit — elegance ! Tell me your name, my angel, if 
you will not let me see your face." 

"To-morrow you shall be satisfied," she an- 
swered. 

" To-morrow ! "Where ? At what hour ?" 

" You shall see me when and where you, least 
expect. Adieu, now. Stir not a step. Ijf I am 
followed you will never see me more.^ 

And the mysterious charmer flitted away, leav- 
ing Doricourt more nearly in Ipye than, he had; 
ever been in his life before. 

As she passed from thp room, Flutter and Mr. 
Hardy entered by the sana^e door. Doricourt ran 
hastily to the light-brained know-all. 

"Oh, Flutter!" he cried, "tell me, you who 
know everybody, who is that charming creature ?" 

" What charmiaig creature ? I have met a 
thousand." 

" She w,ent out at that door, as you entered." 

" Oh, shg^ — ^I know her well. A beauty of very 
easy virtue. She is kept by Lord George Jennett." 

" Kept ! Good heaven !" 

" Flutter is mistaken," said Mr. Hardy, pressing 
forward. " I know who you are in love with. 
The lady you admire is " 

" Your daughter, I suppose," answere,d: Dori- 
court, haughtily. " You know the state of my 
affections better than I do myself, sir. But it is 
too soon to assume the father-in-law, and rebuke 



200 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

me as a wanderer in heart." And he angrily 
strode from the room. 

"Very well, my wise youth," exclaimed Mr. 
Hardy, in hot pique. "You won't let me tell 
you, then ! Hang me if I don't plot with Letty 
now, and not against her ! You need to be taught 
a lesson, my hasty young gentleman." 

The masquerade ended without Doricourt being 
able to gain a further glimpse of the charming 
unknown. Indeed, Flutter's assurance had so 
cooled his flame, and thrown him into such per- 
plexity, that he was for the time not sure whether 
it would be better to go mad, marry the rustic 
Letitia, or shoot himself 

The masquerade had developed a brace of in- 
trigues, of which we must first dispose of the 
lesser. Courtall, full of anticipated triumph over 
Saville, and addition to his fame as a man of 
gallantry, had borne off the counterfeit Lady 
Frances to his lodgings. But hardly had he un- 
masked, and attempted to soothe the seemingly 
frightened beauty, when Saville, Flutter, and a 
number of others broke in upon him. 

He hastily concealed his prize, laughed at 
Saville for losing his bet, and was in the midst of 
his declarations of triumph, when Flutter. opened 
the closet in which the woman had been hidden, 
drew her out, and tore off her mask. 

Courtall stood looking at the revealed face in 
stupefied amazement, while the others burst into 
shouts of laughter. 



THE belle's stratagem. 201 

"Kitty Willis! Ha! ha! ha!" they shouted. 
"A lady of quality! An earl's daughter! ha! 
ha ! ha I Oh, Courtall, you will kill us !" 

" Ten thousand furies seize you !" yelled the 
discomfited libertine. " Leave ray rooms !" 

"As you wish, Courtall. We won't speak of 
this, of course. But the next time you carry off 
a lady from a ballroom, do look under her mask." 

" The foul fiend take you all !" cried Courtall. 
" I'll set off for Paris directly, before I am laughed 
out of London." 

He was correct in supposing that the story 
would soon get abroad. It was the laugh of 
fashionable London the next day, and quickly 
reached the ears of Sir George and his wife. It 
affected them differently. Sir George sought 
Courtall, with the intention of punishing him, 
but he had already set out for France. As for 
Lady Frances, she was thoroughly cured of her 
predilection for a fashionable life. 

"One lesson of this kind is enough," she de- 
clared. " Henceforward, my dear Sir George, you 
shall be my constant companion and protector. 
And when the world laughs at us as unfashion- 
able monsters, our mutual happiness will take all 
the sting from the satire." 

" My angel ! You almost reconcile me to 
Courtall," declared the happy Sir George. 

Meanwhile, in the affair of Doricourt and his 
betrothed, a double stratagem was impending. 
The encounter of the night before had quite com- 



\ 



202 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

pleted the work wliich Miss Hardy's affected 
rusticity had begun. Doricourt, while not mad 
enough to think of marrying the mistress of a 
man of fashion, had conceived a feeling so closely 
approaching love at first sight for the masked 
beauty, that the projected match with Miss Hardy 
had grown doubly distasteful. But to throw 
overboard a fortune of eighty thousand pounds 
was another matter, and, in default of a better 
scheme, he determined to carry out his idea of 
pretended madness, with the hope of inducing 
Mr. Hardy to break off the match. 

This scheme was approved by Saville, to whom 
he spoke of it the next morning. Shortly after- 
wards Flutter called, and Doricourt tried his 
plan of madness on him with such effect that the 
poor fellow was scared half out of his wits. He 
escaped from the room with all haste, leaving the 
conspirators satisfied that, within an hour, their 
news-distributor would spread the story far and 
wide. 

While Doricourt was preparing this plot, the 
Hardys had put another in train. The wedding 
was not to have taken place for a week or more, 
but, through fear that Letty could not keep up 
her character of a fool so long, it was deemed 
advisable to hasten the happy occasion. The 
conspirators decided, after consultation, that Mr. 
Hardy should feign illness, surround himself with 
medicines, paint his face of a cadaverous hue. 
and send word to Doricourt that he had suddenly 



THE belle's stratagem. 203 

been prostrated with a dangerous sickness, was 
on the point of death, and could not go out of the 
world in peace till he had seen his daughter safely 
married. 

The situation had now become a very compli- 
cated one. On the one hand Doricourt professing 
madness to escape marriage with a fool ; on the 
other Miss Hardy playing the fool to pique him 
out of his indifference ; and, to sum all, her father 
playing the dying man to burry up the wedding. 

The tidings of Doricourt's madness and Hardy's 
illness soon reached the ears it was intended for. 

" So ill as that !" exclaimed Doricourt to Saville. 
" I'm very sorry to hear that. He is a worthy 
fellow, even if a little annoying." 

'• Well, you must go and take leave." 

"What! Act the lunatic in a dying man's 
chamber ?" 

"Just the thing: his last commands will be 
that you are not to marry his daughter." 

" True I Yet, hang it, I don't like to impose 
upon a man at so serious a moment. And then I 
will have to encounter Eackett. She's an arch 
little creature, and will discover the cheat." 

" Here's a fellow ! Cheated ninety-nine women, 
and now afraid of the hundredth!" 

"And with reason, — for the hundredth is a 
widow." 

Doricoui-t proved to be correct in his fear of 
Mrs. Eackett's penetration. When he reached 
Mr. Hardy's house, and tried his madness upon 



204 TALES FROM THE DBAMATISTS. 

the widow, he found himself heartily laughed at 
for his pains. 

" I could do it ten times better than you," de- 
clared Mrs. Kackett. — " There 1 There she is I 
JSTow I have her ! — Ha I ha ! ha !" 

" I'll leave the house," exclaimed Doricourt, in 
confusion. 

" Not till you have seen the dying Mr. Hardy. 
You must grant his desire for a minute's conver- 
sation, even though you should persist in your 
cruel wish to send him miserable to his grave." 

Doricourt, with a mind very far from being at 
ease, consented. It proved a dangerous consent 
for him. The surroundings of the sick-room, the 
skilful acting of Mr. Hardy, the memory of his 
own father's ardent wish, the pathetic appeal of 
the apparently dying invalid, so worked on his 
susceptible fancy that tears came to his eyes, and 
he impulsively agreed that the marriage should 
take place. 

" Make haste," he exclaimed. " If I have time 
to reflect, poor Hardy will die unhappy." 

The clergyman was present, and performed the 
ceremony so expeditiously that the deceived bride- 
groom had not a moment's time for thought. 
Before he fairly knew it himself he was a mar- 
ried man, tied for life to one whom he believed to 
be little better than an idiot. 

Eeflection came afterwards, — and with it re- 
morse. When Doricourt reached the room where 
the remainder of his friends were assembled, he 



THE belle's stratagem. 205 

was perhaps the most melancholy bridegroom who 
had ever breathed London air. 

Yet he had not reached his lowest depth of 
despair. As he stood there conversing, with a 
gloomy effort at resignation, a masked lady en- 
tered the room, at the sight of whom he started 
as if he had really gone mad. It was the mys- 
terious charmer of the masquerade. 

" I told you that you should see me when and 
where you least expected," she said. " I am here 
to keep my promise." 

" Madam," said Saville, "you have arrived at a 
happy moment. Mr. Doricourt is just married." 

" Married ! after swearing eternal love to me, 
and winning my guileless heart !" 

" I knew you not then," declared Doricourt, in 
torture of soul. " I learned too much afterwards. 
The companion of Lord George Jennett " 

" What do you mean, sir?" she indignantly re- 
plied. "Do you desire to add insult to injury? 
To excuse your broken vows " 

" Eascal !" interrupted Doricourt, speaking to 
Flutter. " You told me. Is she not " 

" Who, she ? Why, it was quite a different per- 
son I meant. I never saw this lady before," pro- 
tested Flutter. 

This was too much for poor Doricourt. He 
seized Flutter and shook him so violently that the 
others had to tear him off, lest he should do the 
miserable tale-bearer an injury. 

The distressed Benedict was not yet at the end 

18 



206 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

of his surprises. In the midst of his assault on 
Flutter, Mr. Hardy entered, in nightcap and 
gown, and exclaimed, — 

" This is too much. You are now the husband 
of my daughter! How dare you show all this 
passion about another woman ?" 

"You here! Alive I" cried Doricourt. 

" And merry as a cricket," laughed Hardy. 
" Here, wipe the flour from my face. Why, my 
illness was but a trick, man, to make you marry 
Letty." 

" Base and ungenerous man ! "Well, you have 
gained your wish, — and may keep your daughter. 
I shall leave England this night, never to return. 
But, dear lady, grant me the favor which you 
refused last night. Let me see your face, that in 
my exile I shall have that much consolation in my 
lonely hours." 

" This is the most awful moment of my life," 
answered the lady. " Oh, Doricourt, the taking 
off of my mask will make me the most blessed or 
most miserable of women." 

" What can you mean ? Eeveal your face, I 
pray you." 

" Behold it, then." 

She removed the mask as she spoke, and re- 
vealed to the agitated man the well-known features 
of — Letitia Hardy. 

" You ?— Letitia ? Oh, what rapture! You? 
Can it be possible ?" 

" You would not love me as I was, Doricourt ; 



THE belle's stratagem. 207 

and you fairly hated me as I assumed to be. 
You finally fell in love with me as somebody else ; 
— shall I keep that love, as nobody but your plain, 
but devoted, English wife ?" 

" You shall be nothing but yourself You could 
not be half so captivating in any other character. 
There is henceforth but one woman in the world 
for me, — and that is my own dear wife." 

" Come into the next room," exclaimed Mr. 
Hardy. " I have ordered out every drop of my 
forty-eight ; and I'll invite the whole parish of 
St. George's but we'll drink it out to the happy 
success of— the Belle's Stratagem." 



END OF VOL. I. 



TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS 

1580 TO 1780 
VOLUME 11. 



jii.uur.il*. 



 'Vvfc mTi^,r\y t,T !?><'. ■!-\, t 



o*: ' 





ced, was 
ig minister of 


the career of 


d 
Moore also 




's 


fableti ! nixe very j 





^ , . " ' .^"'"vies ago, there 

lived a ^ . . who was pos- 

sessed with such a passion for gaming that he had, 
through his devotion to cards and dice, wasted 
an ample fortune, and brought himself to the 

-- ^ ' ^f ruin. This unfortunate state of affairs 

rgely due to his unbounded trust in a 

oeming friend named Stukely, who, while pre- 

•mmiseration fcxr the family ;i 

'aim the g ' ' o 

.u liuu ijx uiti estate b\ 






OHVEK GOLDSMITH. 



THE GAMESTER. 

BY EDWAKD MOOEE. 



[The author of the thrilling domestic tragedy 
of "The Gamestei'," one of the strongest lessons 
against the evils of gambling ever presented, was 
born in 1712, the son of a dissenting minister of 
Abingdon. The play is lacking in literary merit, 
but is constructed with much dramatic skill, and 
the career of Beverly, the gambler, affords excel- 
lent opportunities for stage effect. Moore also 
wrote two comedies, and an imitation of Gay's 
fables that became very popular. He died in 1757.] 

In London, about two centuries ago, there 
lived a gentleman named Beverly, who was pos- 
sessed with such a passion for gaming that he had, 
through his devotion to cards and dice, wasted 
an ample fortune, and brought himself to the 
verge of ruin. This unfortunate state of affairs 
was largely due to his unbounded trust in a 
seeming friend named Stukely, who, while pre- 
tending commiseration for the family; and a 
desire to reclaim the gambler, had contrived to 
rob him of his estate by surrounding him with a. 



8' TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Bot of sharpers, his tools and confederates. The 
wealth which Beverly had lost had gone mainly 
into the pockets of this supposed friend, through 
the aid of false dice and fraudulent play. Stukely 
had other ends in view than the ruin of his 
blinded dupe. Mi-s. Beverly's beauty had at- 
tracted his licentious eyes, and the overthrow 
of her virtue was one of the main objects in his 
nefarious schemes. 

As for this lady, her husband's ruinous passion 
for gambling had reduced her to the utmost dis- 
tress. She had beheld his own fortune, and the 
one which she had brought him, vanish before 
her eyes, until now her house and furniture had 
been sold to pay the accumulating debts, and she, 
with Charlotte, Mr. Beverly's sister, had retired 
to humble lodgings, whither they were pursued 
by creditors. Of her once abundant means Mrs. 
Beverly had only her jewels left. Charlotte's fort- 
une was also in her brother's hands ; and there was 
reason to fear that now, having dissipated his own 
and his wife's estates, he might squander hers on 
the wretches who had robbed him of his own. 

There is still another person of whom we must 
speak, Mr. Lewson, a devoted lover of Charlotte, 
and a generous friend, who had secretly bought 
in the Beverly house and furniture, which he held 
for the use of the unhappy wife. His courtship 
of Charlotte had so far proved unsuccessful, her 
sympathy for her suffering sister-in-law being so 
great that she would not listen to anything that 



THE GAMESTER. » 

might part them. As foi' her fortune, which 
Beverly falsely assured her was still untouched, 
she determined to remove it from his hands, if 
possible, and use it for the support of the game- 
ster's reduced family. 

On the occasion when we first meet these un- 
fortunate women, Beverly had been absent all 
night, and his poor wife was in a state of the 
deepest sorrow and apprehension, for he had 
never before left her alone for a night. While 
Charlotte was seeking to comfort her, they were 
visited by an old servant of the family named 
Jarvis, a faithful old man, who greeted them with 
so much feeling as to bring tears to Mrs. Beverly's 
eyes. He begged to be permitted to attend Mr. 
Beverly at his own expense, and seek to with- 
draw him from his evil ways. 

Mr. Stukely called immediately afterwards, 
with words and tones of the deepest sympathy. 
He expressed surprise and alarm that Beverly 
had not returned, declared that he had lavished 
good advice on him without effect, and had sup- 
plied him with money to the injury of his own for- 
tune. Where he was now he could not tell. He had 
left him, he said, the evening before at a place 
called Wilson's, in company he did not like. If 
Mr. Jarvis wished to find him, he might seek him 
there. 

Jarvis left for this purpose, and a knocking at 
the door calling Charlotte from the room, Stukely 
was left alone with Mrs. Beverly. He took 



10 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

instant advantage of the opportunity to further 
the base scheme tliat nestled in his brain, insidi- 
ously hinting to the unhappy wife doubts of the 
cause of her husband's absence, and striving to 
arouse jealous feelings in her mind. 

"Yet the world is full of slander," he said. 
" If you are wise, you will turn a deaf ear to such 
reports. 'Tis ruin to believe them." 

" "Why name them, then ?" 

" To guard you against the voice of rumor. These 
tales may reach your ears from other tongues." 

" What tales ? By whom ? Who doubts my 
husband's faith ? You are his friend, — and mine 
too, I trust. Only for that I had been uncon- 
cerned." 

" For Heaven's sake, madam, bo so ! I meant 
to guard you against suspicion, not to arouse it." 

" Nor have you, sir. I have a heart suspicion 
cannot reach." 

" Then I am happy. I pray you, let this go no 
further. I would say more, but am prevented." 

His insidious hints were brought to an end by 
the return of Charlotte, who said that a creditor 
had called, but had been dismissed by Jarvis. 
Immediately afterwards Mrs. Beverly left the 
room, in a dispirited mood, saying that she was 
faint with watching and must take some rest, 

Stukely watched her with cunning eyes, well 
knowing that it was the poison he had breathed 
into her ear that affected her spirits. He had 
played the first card in his evil game. While he 



THE GAMESTER. 11 

stood conversing with Charlotte, Mr. Lewson 
entered, and asked for Mr. Beverly. On learning 
of his continued absence, he turned to Stukely 
with a hostile expression of countenance. 

« I inquired for you at your lodgings, sir," he 
remarked. 

" For what purpose, pray ?" asked Stukely. 

" Only to congratulate you on your late successes 
at play. Poor Beverly ! But he should take some 
comfort in having such successful friends." 

" What am I to understand by this?" demanded 
Stukely, angrily. 

"That Beverly is a poor man, with a rich 
friend. That's all." 

" Sir, this needs an explanation. Another time 
I shall demand one." 

" Why not now ? I am no dealer in long sen- 
tences. A minute or two will do for me." 

Stukely, however, whose courage ran far short 
of his villany, was just then not anxious for an 
explanation; and sheltering himself behind the 
excuse of a lady's presence, he took his leave, 
declaring that he was ready to hear from the 
gentleman at any future time. 

"What mean you by this ?" demanded Char- 
lotte, in a tone of surprise. 

" To hint to him that I know him." 

" Know him ? This is mere doubt and supposi- 
tion." 

" I shall have proof soon." 

" And would you risk your life " 



12 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" My life ? With Stukely ? Have no concern, 
Charlotte. I know the fellow well. It would be 
as easy to make him honest as brave. But I hear 
Mrs. Beverly coming. Let this be a secret between 
us. She has already too much to trouble her." 

Stukely, meanwhile, betook himself to his 
lodgings, where he soliloquized over his projects. 
He had loved Mrs. Beverly before her marriage, 
and now thirsted for revenge on the man who had 
robbed him of her, and whom he sought to repay 
by robbing him of his wealth. There still re- 
mained to Beverly his wife's jewels and the rever- 
sion of his uncle's estate. These Stukely declared 
to himself he must have, to complete the game- 
ster's ruin. Beverly must demand his wife's 
jewels. Once in the tempter's hands, he could 
use them to add fuel to her jealousy. 

His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance 
of one of his chief agents, a fellow named Bates. 

" Our forces are in readiness," he said, " and 
only wait for orders. Where is Beverly ?" 

" At last night's rendezvous. Is Dawson with 
you?" 

" Yes. Dressed like a nobleman ; with money 
in his pocket, and a set of dice that would deceive 
the devil." 

" That fellow has a head to undo a nation. But 
for the rest, they are such low-mannered, ill- 
looking dogs, I wonder Beverly has not suspected 
them." 

" That matters nothing, if they have money. 



THE GAMESTER. 13 

The passion of gambling casts such a mist before 
the eyes, that the nobleman may be surrounded 
with sharpers, and yet imagine himself in the best 
company." 

And 80 they went on, laying their plans, not 
the least of which was a resolution to take care of 
the suspicious Lewson, whom Stukely declared 
would ruin them if they did not checkmate his 
designs. 

While these events, caused by and revolving 
round Beverly's insane infatuation, were taking 
place, that person was seated in the gaming house 
which had been the scene of his chief losses. 
His soul was filled with remorse, which was added 
to by the entrance of Jarvis, who deeply impressed 
upon him the sad state in which he had found his 
wife. But the beneficial effect which these admo- 
nitions might have had was prevented by the en- 
trance of his evil genius, Stukely, who laughed at 
the misgivings of his dupe and bade him cheer up, 
telling him that fortune must soon turn in his 
favor. As for himself, he declared that he was 
ruined also, and even in danger of prison for his 
debts, but that he was not the man to give up 
hoj)e. " Have you nothing," he asked ; " no 
movables, no trinkets, that can be converted into 
money ? Your wife's jewels ?" 

" And shall this thriftless hand seize them, too ?" 
exclaimed Beverly, in deep distress. " My poor, 
poor wife I Must she lose all ? I could not wound 
her so." 

2 



14 TALES FROM THE DKAMATIST8. 

" No matter. Let it pass. "What if a prison 
be the reward of friendship? It is what one 
must look for." 

"Leave you to a prison 1 No; fallen as you 
Bee me, I am not such a wretch as that I My 
wife's jewels? — But in friendship's cause? — I'll 
doit!" 

Beverly left the house in a passion of feeling 
for his friend, and returned home, resolved to 
make any sacrifice to save him from prison. His 
wife met him with a love that ignored her wrongs. 
So kind was her greeting, indeed, that the re- 
morseful gamester had not the courage to hint at 
the purpose which had brought him. But this 
possibility Stukely had foreseen and provided for. 
He sent a letter after his dupe, which reached 
him while in conversation with his wife. In this 
he declared that he had determined to trespass no 
further on his friend's bounty, but would leave 
England and thus escape the danger that threat- 
ened him, rather than resort to the means they 
had talked of. 

The blinded dupe read the letter to his wife, 
who earnestly insisted on knowing what means 
these were, and on learning that the writer al- 
luded to her jewels, she begged her husband to 
take them. 

" What are these trifles, if weighed against a 
husband's peace ?" she declared. " Let them pur. 
chase that, and the world's wealth is valueless 
beside it." 



THE GAMESTER. 15 

The ruined gamester, however, did not fare so 
well with the other inmates of his house. Lewson 
spoke so plainly of his doubts of Stukely that a 
quarrel nearly arose between them ; while Char- 
lotte pressed him so closely in regard to her for- 
tune that he was put to straits to hide the fact 
that it had sunk into the same gulf which had 
swallowed his own, and only escaped her ques- 
tions by promising to satisfy her in the morn- 
ing. 

The result of this last venture with the god- 
dess Fortune was but what might have been ex- 
pected. The jewels were converted into money, 
the money pressed upon Stukely, and at the 
gaming table it quickly went where so much had 
gone before it, into the hands of the gang of soul- 
less sharpers. 

The reverse, fi"om a venture which Stukely had 
made to appear so promising, almost overturned 
Beverly's reason. He turned fiercely on his 
false friend, accusing him of being the demon 
who had first induced him to gamble, and led 
him on from loss to loss by his insidious counsels ; 
and was only prevented from assailing him by 
his earnest protest that he too had been ruined. 

Beverly's passion, thus diverted, next turned 
against the sharpers who had ruined him, and 
whom he now declared must have done so by 
fraud, 

" Yet the world speaks fairly of them," said 
Stukely. "We have watched them closely, too. 



16 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

But it is a right usurped by losers to think the win- 
ners knaves. Let us have more manhood, Beverly." 

" I know not what to think," cried Beverly, in 
despair. "This night has stung me to the quick ; 
blasted my reputation, too. I have bound my 
honor to these vipers; played meanly on credit, 
and have no means to pay." 

Stukely insidiously hinted, in reply, that one 
means of redress remained, which would enable 
him to pay his debts and would yield him a sum 
to retrieve his losses. This was, to sell the rever- 
sion to his uncle's estate. Bates was wealthy and 
would purchase it. 

" Be it so," exclaimed the desperate gamester. 
" Succeed what will, to-night I'll dare the worst. 
'Tis loss of fear to be completely cursed." 

Stukely, congratulating himself on having led 
his dupe so far on the road to ruin, now pro- 
ceeded to put into effect the scheme directed 
against the honor of his wife. Leaving Beverly 
to visit Bates, and add his prospects of future 
fortune to the sum of his previous losses, the 
villain sought the humble abode which now 
formed the unfortunate lady's home. 

On meeting her, he declared that he had parted 
from Beverly that morning in anger, and on her 
speaking of the letter which had induced her to 
yield up her jewels, he stated, with a pretence of 
indignation, that it was a false one, a mean con- 
trivance to rob her of the little that remained to 
her. He vowed that it had not been written bv 



THE GAMESTER. 17 

him, but by Beverly himself, and that the jewels 
yielded him by his wife had been lavished on a 
wanton. 

This well-devised plot, which he unfolded with 
the greatest show of feeling, declaring that he 
spoke from personal knowledge, convinced the 
trusting wife that she had been cruelly deceived ; 
and in the fire of her resentment, she declared 
that she would be revenged on him who had so 
deeply injured her. 

" Redress is in your power." he said. 

" What redress ?" 

" The marriage vow, once violated, is in the 
sight of Heaven dissolved. Start not, but hear 
me. You owe no loyalty to him who has injured 
you so deeply. Fly from the crudest of men for 
shelter with the kindest ; from him who wrongs 
you to him who dares tell you that he loves you." 

During these words Mrs. Beverly had gazed 
upon the speaker with startled eyes, amazement 
graduall}' turning to indignatiou as he went on. 
When, in the end, he fully revealed his base du- 
plicity, she broke out with a fury that could no 
longer be restrained. 

" Would that these eyes had heaven's own 
lightning, that with a look I might blast you!" 
she exclaimed. " Am I, then, fallen so low ? Has 
poverty so humbled me that I could listen to a 
hellish offer, and sell my soul for bread? O 
villain ! villain ! But I know you now, and thank 
you for the knowledge." 
Vol. II.— 6 2* 



18 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Stukely listened with startled ears to this un- 
looked-for reception of his base proposal. He 
had played and failed. Nothing remained but to 
seek to hide his baseness, and he endeavored to do 
this by threats. 

" I scorn you and your threats !" she indig- 
nantly replied. " Beverly shall know of your base 
proposal, and revenge me on his false friend." 

" Be it so. Send him for defiance, if you will. 
I'll make a widow of you, and then can court you 
honorably." 

" O coward ! coward ! your soul will shrink 
before him ! And yet " She hesitated. " Be- 
gone; keep your own secret. Leave me, despi- 
cable wretch !" 

The exhausted woman sank feebly into a chair, 
as the discomfited villain left the room with 
renewed threats. "What to do she knew not. 
Should she speak, and perhaps doom her husband 
to death ? Should she be silent, and leave him still 
exposed to this villain's temptations ? Her soul 
was torn with doubt and agony. That Lewson 
was right in his suspicion of this man she now 
plainly perceived. He, and he only, was the ser- 
pent who had lured her weak husband to ruin. 

We have dwelt so long with the guilty and the 
miserable personages of our story that it will be 
a relief to turn to two on whom happiness had 
fallen. In the midst of these distressing events, 
Lewson had taken the opportunity to press his 
suit again upon Charlotte, and this time with 



THE GAMESTER. 19 

success, she having yielded to the warm demand 
which she had long repelled, and promised to be 
his wife, whatever might occur. Armed with this 
assurance, he now told her what he had hitherto 
concealed. He had learned from Bates, Stukely's 
chief agent, that her fortune was lost. It had 
followed Beverly's own estate into the yawning 
gulf of ruin. 

" Bates is grateful to me for a service I have 
done him," he continued. " He told me this in 
friendship, thinking to warn me against you, and 
little deeming that his news would give me new 
courage to seek to win you." 

" It was honest in him, and I thank him for it." 

*' I hope to learn more from him," added Lew- 
son. " He is deep in Stukely's confidence." 

The joy of the newly-betrothed pair received 
a shock when they met Mrs. Beverly, for the 
unhappy woinan, still burning with indignation, 
had resolved to disdain Stukely's threats, and 
told them of the insult she had received from the 
soulless villain. 

'' The smooth-tongued hypocrite !" exclaimed 
Charlotte, in fiery indignation. 

" We have found him out, — that is something 
gained," declared Lewson. " For his insults I 
promise you retribution." 

" No violence !" broke in Mrs. Beverly. " I only 
spoke on your promise." 

" Trust me to be cool and quiet. Yet I'll charge 
him strongly, and draw my conclusions from his 



20 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 

looks and answers. Next I'll seek Bates and sift 
him to the bottom. If I fail there, some of the 
gang can be bribed to betray the others. Good- 
night ; I'll save your husband yet. But no time 
is to be lost." 

Leaving the house, Lewson proceeded with- 
out delay to Stukcly's residence. A hot and 
violent conference ensued, in which the visitor 
accused his villanous host of guilt and treach- 
ery in a tone that threw him into trembling 
confusion. 

"You sheltered yourself, when we last met, 
behind a lady's presence," cried Lewson, in a hot 
passion. "Now we are alone. Why, what a 
wretch !" he continued, as Stukely cowered before 
him. " The vilest insect will turn when trampled 
on ; and this thing calls itself a man !" He flung 
his craven antagonist fiercely from him. " Villain, 
if you would save yourself, fall to confession. If 
not, I'll crush you like a worm." 

This Stukely, roused by the very extremity of 
his danger, refused to do, though Lewson drew 
his sword and threatened him with death unless 
he made a full revelation of his villany. 

" He is within my grip," exclaimed the wretch, 
stung at length to bold defiance. " Do not push 
me too far, or the hand that has supported him 
shall fall and crush him." 

" Why, now there's spirit in you ! Do your 
worst, villain, I'll reach you yet. Beverly shall 
be saved, you cur, and you punished ; take my 



THE GAMESTER. 21 

word for that. You shall hear from me again," 
and Lewson left the room in a high passion. 

"Curse on my coward heart!" exclaimed 
Stukely. " I'm shaking like a leaf at that fellow's 
vaporing. But he must be dealt with ; the officious 
fool will make mischief else." 

His method of dealing with him was one in 
consonance with his cowardly and ruthless nature. 
On the entrance of Bates, shortly afterwards, 
Stukely told him of Lewson's visit and threats, 
and coolly proposed that he should be despatched 
by the assassin's blade, as the safest method of 
ridding themselves of a dangerous foe. 

Bates started at this proposition, and at first 
refused to have anything to do with it. But on 
Stukely's declaring that they must crush Lewson 
or he would crush them, that shame and beggary 
would be their lot were their villany once ex- 
posed, and that he would share his gains with 
him who struck the blow, his confederate with- 
drew his refusal. 

" How shall it be done ?" he asked. 

" He's gone to Beverly's. Wait for him in the 
street. The night is dark and fit for mischief." 

" Consider it done, then," said Bates, as he left 
the room. " Farewell till it is accomplished." 

*' Why, farewell Lewson, then, and my feara 
with him," soliloquized Stukely. "This night 
secures me. I'll wait the event within." 

Meanwhile the ruin of Beverly had been com- 
pleted. He had sold the reversion of his uncle's 



22 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. • 

estate to Bates, staked the money at the gaming 
table, and again lost. The result was crushing. 
In the words of the leader of the gang : " When 
all was lost, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, 
and stood some time, with folded arms, stupid and 
motionless. Then, snatching his sword, which 
hung against the wainscot, he sat down, and, 
with a look of fixed attention, drew figures on 
the floor. At last he started up, looked wild 
and trembled ; and, like a woman, laughed out 
aloud, while tears trickled down his face. Thus 
he left the room." 

The frenzy of the ruined gamester, indeed, 
■was almost madness. He roamed the deserted 
streets like a lost spirit, now mourning with 
remorse, now breaking into rage at his folly, now 
weeping like a child. In this mood he met Lew- 
son, and turned on him with anger, declaring that 
he had traduced him, and spread a vile report 
that he had wronged his sister. 

Drawing his sword, Beverly advanced in a 
hostile manner, calling sternly on his late friend 
to draw and defend himself. This Lewson refused 
to do, and declared that this accusation was a 
falsehood, of which Stukely was the inventor. 

" As you please ; it was Stukely that accused 
you," said Beverly. 

"The lying dog! He fears discovery, and 
would have you kill me to screen himself." 

" Can you prove this ?" 

" Yes ; give me till to-morrow, and I will." 



THE GAMESTER. 23 

What further took place in that scene of mid- 
night gloom and human passions a few words will 
tell. Bates, who was abroad on his murderous 
mission, had overheard the quarrel between Bev- 
erly and Lewson. As he stood viewing them from 
a distance Jarvis appeared. 

" Yonder's your master," he said to Jarvis. " Go 
to him, and lead him home. I prefer not tobe 
seen by him." 

He withdrew in the direction Lewson had 
taken, leaving to the heart-broken old servant the 
sad task of quieting his frenzied master, and per- 
suadino; him to return home. 

The subsequent events may be fitly told in the 
words of Dawson, the leader of the gang Of 
sharpers, who had been in company with Bates 
when the quarrel between Beverly and Lewson 
took place, and hastened with news of it to their 
employer. 

"Why, this is excellent!" exclaimed Stukely. 
*' That quarrel fits neatly into my plans. Bates 
will do it, think you ?" 

"He shrunk from it at first; but when we 
parted, it was decided between us that Lewson 
should die." 

" Good ! Beverly killed him ; remember that. 
A jury shall so decree it, after hearing your 
testimony about the quarrel. Here, take this 
writ; I have had it by me for some days, 
awaiting a convenient time for its execution. 
It is for money that I have loaned Beverly. 



2-i TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Find an oflScer and have him arrested in- 
stantly." 

" Arrest a beggar? He cannot pay you." 

" Dull fellow, can you not understand ? Beverly 
was seen quarrelling with Lewson ; I, who know 
his interitions, had him arrested as a friend, to 
save him from murder. I was too late, as it will 
appear, but my act was well meant, and men will 
thank me for it. Now do you understand ?" 

" Perfectly." 

" Then to work, wait about his door, and have 
him seized when he comes home. A jail must bo 
his lodging this night." 

All was, or seemed to be, carried out in accord- 
ance with Stukely's orders. An hour afterwards 
Dawson returned, and told a moving story of the 
arrest of Beverly at his own door, and the anguish 
it had caused his wife and sister. Even his hard 
heart had been moved thereby, and had the officers 
been as compassionate as he the arrest would not 
have been made. 

" He is safe in prison, then ?" 

" Yes ; with only Jarvis to comfort him." 

" There let him lie till we have further business 
with him. And for you, let me hear no more 
of compassion. A fellow nursed in villany has 
naught to do with such womanly weakness." 

"Say you so, sir! You should have named 
the villain that tempted me." 

" 'Tis false. I found you a villain, and so em- 
ployed you. But no more of this. Ah I here 



THE GAMESTER. 25 

comes Bates. Now, Dawson, for medicine to 
strengthen your weak heart." 

The story that Bates had to tell, indeed, was a 
horrible one, Lewson was dead, — stabbed to the 
heart. Their pathway was clear so far as this 
enemy was concerned. Stukely listened to the 
details of the murder without a shudder, and 
eagerly set to work to complete his plans to lay 
the crime on Beverly. 

" Jarvis saw the quarrel too, you say?" 

" Yes ; or heard it at a distance." 

"Good; unwilling evidence carries weight; he 
shall be forced to speak." 

Had the soulless wretch heard the words that 
passed between his villanous tools after they left 
him, his self-congratulation would have been 
greatly reduced. 

"Your story, then, is all imaginary?" asked 
Dawson. 

" Every word of it. I draw the line at murder. 
But Lewson will keep out of sight till the proper 
time. A cursed wretch that Stukely." 

" Why, hang it, he has gone too far ! To seek 
to hunt his dupe to the death! I'm with you, 
Bates. But are you safe ?" 

" Yes. Lewson is with us." 

Beverly, as Dawson reported, had been con- 
ducted to a debtor's prison, where he passed a 
wretched night, despite all Jarvis's efforts at con- 
solation. Tears, sighs, remorseful self-accusings, 
wild outbreaks of despair, made the old man as 

B 3 



26 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

miserable as his unhappy master, and morning 
dawned before the faithful attendant succeeded 
in bringing the ruined gamester into a cahner 
mood. In the end he apj)earcd to become com- 
posed and easy, and strongly insisted that Jarvis 
should return to his home, and do what he could 
to comfort his wretched wife. 

The miserable and desperate man had a secret 
purpose in this of which his old attendant did not 
dream. In the despair of the past few days he 
had provided himself with poison, and no sooner 
had Jarvis left the cell than he took the fatal vial 
from his pocket, and sat long with his eyes fixed 
gloomily upon it, while dark thoughts passed 
throuirh his mind. 

" Why, there's an end, then," he said, at length, 
in hollow tones. " I have judged myself fully, 
and the verdict is death. The load of life op- 
presses me too much, and my soul's horrors 
are more than I can bear. Conscience, thy 
clamors are too loud. Here's that shall silence 
them." He gazed fixedly at the vial. " Come, 
then, thou cordial for sick minds. Let this be my 
last throw in life. Will it be a losing one, like all 
that have gone before? Who shall say?" Ho 
drank from the vial, and threw it from him. 
" Now, death is in my veins. But let it come. I 
have lived too long." 

Too long, indeed, for he had lived long enough 
to lose at the gaming table a second fortune, 
gi-eater than his own. Unknown to him, tho 



THE GAMESTER. 27 

uncle, the reversion of whose estate he had sold, 
was now dead, and had willed him his entire 
property. This important news Jarvis learned 
while on his way to Mrs. Beverly's lodgings, and 
he broke in upon the afflicted women with a tale 
of joy that lifted them from despair to ardent 
hope. The uncle had died on the previous day, 
and Beverly was rich again. They must fly to 
his prison-cell, and bear him the good news. He 
was now quiet and calm : the tidings would lift 
him from despair to joy. 

Having hastily told this story, Jarvis hurried 
out for a coach, and in very few minutes the two 
women were flying to the prison, eager to release 
the unhappy captive. Little did they dream of 
the fatal act which he was even then performing. 

To their surprise, the news was received by 
Beverly in a manner the reverse of joyful. He 
heard his wife and sister to the end, questioned 
them in a strange manner, that excited their ap- 
prehensions, and then broke out with fierce self- 
ujDbraidings. 

" Wretch that I am !" he cried. " All this large 
fortune, which might have made us happy, has 
gone before it came. In a cursed hour, I sold all 
my claim to it last night." 

"Sold it?" 

" Yes. That devil Stukely tempted me to the 
deed. I sold the reversion to pay false debts of 
honor, and — lost the money among villains." 

" Then, farewell all !" cried Charlotte. 



28 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Liberty and life I" groaned the miserable 
gamester. " Curse me, for I deserve it." 

He was answered by his faithful wife in a man- 
ner he had no reason to expect. Kneeling at 
his feet, she prayed to Heaven to save him from 
despair, and vowed that she would toil for his 
support while she had hands to work with. 

" It is too late !" he cried. " I have done a deed 
that cannot be retrieved ; a deed that seals your 
misery here and mine hereafter." 

" A deed ? What deed ? Surely he raves, Char- 
lotte. Yet his looks terrify me." 

"I fear the worst," said Charlotte, with appre- 
hensive countenance. " What is it, brother?" 

" A deed of horror, — Ha ! villain, what brings 
you here ?" His eyes were fixed fiercely on 
Stukely, who entered at that instant. 

" I came to bring you safety. The arrest last 
night was well meant, but came too late. H^re, 
madam, is his discharge." He handed Mrs. Bev- 
erly a paper. " Let him fly instantly." 

" Fly !— from what ?" cried Charlotte. 

" I would have kept his hands from blood, but 
was too late." 

" From blood ! whose blood ? Is this the deed 
he spoke of? Whose blood, villian ?" 

" From Lewson's blood." 

" Lewson !" cried Charlotte, rushing, white 
with terror, towards him. " We have not seen 
him to-day. What of him ? Quick I" 

" He is dead. Murdered, men say." 



THE GAMESTER. 29 

" Murdered ! Lewson ! Oh, horrible ! "Who 
has killed him? — Brother, he charges you " 

" Silence all," exclaimed Beverly, " Proceed, 
sir. What have you more to say ?" 

"Nothing," answered Stukely. "Here comes 
the evidence of my words." Bates had entered 
while he spoke. 

"Take comfort, madam," said Bates to Char- 
lotte. "There's one without asking for you. 
Go to him at once." 

" Oh, miserable me ! Lewson slain ! My 
brother !" faltered Charlotte, with a face of deathly 
pallor, as with ti-embling steps she complied with 
Bates's request. 

" Follow her, Jarvis," exclaimed Mrs. Beverly. 
" Her grief may kill her." 

"Jarvis must stay here," replied Bates. "He 
is needed, madam." 

"Eatherlet him fly," said Stukely. " His evi- 
dence may crush his master." 

" Why, what means all this ?" asked Beverly. 

" What new villany Oh, I am sick ! Bring 

me a chair !" 

As Mrs. Beverly hastened to help him to one, 
Dawson entered. 

" What brings you here ?" asked Stukely. 

" I bade him come," answered Bates. " You 
need all your witnesses. Here are two of us. 
There is still another." 

" Another ?" 

" Yes. Yonder he comes. Look at him." 

3* 



30 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

As he spoke Lowson entered the room, Char- 
lotto clinging to his arm. 

" Lewson !" exclaimed Stukely, with wildly- 
staring eyes and quivering lips. " Oh, you cursed 
villains !" 

"Lewson, and alive again," exclaimed that in- 
dividual. " You hardly looked for me, friend 
Stukely, after having laid so neat a plan for my 
taking off. Sharpers and false dice were not 
enough, it seems, but you must dabble in murder, 
and so turn your tools into your foes. Take the 
miserable wretch away," he continued, to Bates and 
Dawson. " For your lives, see that you guard 
him closely! He has much to answer for, and 
I shall hold you responsible if you let him 
escape." 

Stukely was led from the room, with trembling 
limbs and fallen jaw, by his late associates in 
crime, such an abject and miserable wreck that 
even his intended victims could scarcely look upon 
him otherwise than with pity. 

They had a more frightful spectacle soon to 
behold. The poison which Beverly had rashly 
swallowed was now flowing like fire through his 
veins, while his face and limbs grew convulsed, 
and inch by inch he seemed dying before their 
faces, consumed by inward pains. 

" Ah ! that pang !" he cried, in agony. " Where 
IS my wife? Can you forgive me, love?" 

"Alas! for what?" 

" For meanly dying. Shame, despair, remorse 



THE aAMESTER. 31 

have been too much for me. I am a dying man ; 
dying — by poison." 

*' By poison ! Oh, fatal deed ! Save him ! Oh, 
save him !" cried the distracted wife. 

"Alas! that prayer is fruitless. I have lived 
long enough to ruin you all, and now fly like a 
coward when there is nothing left for my fatal 
hand to lose. Charlotte, my sister, can you for- 
give me ?" 

" Forgive you ! Oh, my poor brother !" 

" Lend me your hand, love — so — help me. Oh, 
for a few short moments, to tell you how my 
heart bleeds for you ! Dying as I am, my deepest 
pang is for your miseries. Support me, Heaven I 
Ah ! I go, — I die. Oh, mercy ! mercy !" With a 
few more inarticulate words his eyes and lips be- 
came fixed, his body fell limply down, death had 
come, — the career of the gamester was at an end. 



DOUGLAS. 

BY JOHN HOME. 



[John Home, the leading dramatist of Scottish 
birth, was born at Leith in 1722. After gradu- 
ating at the Edinburgh University, he took part 
in the campaign against the Pretender, and was 
taken prisoner. He became a minister of the 
Scottish church in 1747, and shortly afterwards 
wrote a tragedy named "Agis," which failed at 
that time to be produced. Subsequently, on a 
suggestion from the ancient ballad of " Gil 
Morice," he produced his tragedy of " Douglas," 
"the work on which his fame rests. This play, 
which was first acted in 1756, gave such offence 
to the Presbytery that the author resigned his 
ministry, and went to England, where he became 
private secretary to the Earl of Bute. He wrote 
several other plays, all much inferior to " Doug- 
las," and a " History of the Eebellion of 1745." 
He died in 1808. 

Of Home's works, "Douglas" alone for any 

time held the stage. In this play, which is still 

classed among the acting drama, the licentiousness 

of the drama of the Eestoration, and the frigid 

32 



-■#F^JJ^5^'^T,- 



JOHN HOME. 



Tinrni^s. 



Cy JOHN HOME. 



[John TJ 
birth, was 
ating at M 
in the  
taken prisone; 



r-r  i 



was 
8 a minister of the 

I at 
. ■, .n a 

t^L... ... ' nnniont . .. Gil 

Moiice," he produceu agedy of " Douglas," 

the work on which hie fame rests. This play, 
which was first acted in 1756, gave such offence 

' ni9 



I to '* Doug- 
r 1745." 



actiPET 
of the drama of the 

■.y2 



A 
'iusness 



n, and the frigid 



^ 




DOUGLAS. 33 

lifelessness of that of the Addisonian period, are 
replaced by a purity of sentiment and an emo- 
tional ~vvarmth and pathos which sufficiently ex- 
plain the enthusiasm with which it was received. 
Few plays which have been produced on the Eng- 
lish stage have met with a more brilliant success. 
Home's style is marked by ardor and pathetic 
feeling, his language is lucid and poetical, and his 
plots attractive, to which qualities the enduring 
popularity of his leading dramatic work is due.] 

Lady Eandolph, the wife of Lord Eandolph, a 
Scottish nobleman of high descent, was the victim 
of a grief so deep and unceasing that her life 
seemed but a tale of bitter woe. The true cause 
of this sorrow none, not even her husband, knew. 
All supposed that she mourned a favorite brother, 
who had been slain in battle yeai's before, but this 
seeming origin of her grief concealed a deeper 
source of anguish, the more severe that it had to 
be borne in secret. Lord Eandolph loved her 
with a devoted and jealous affection, and grieved 
in his turn that his love won no response. His 
life, in consequence, was so unhappy that he felt 
tempted to throw himself on the swords of the 
Danish invaders, who then threatened Scotland, 
and thus end his suffering existence. 

To one person only did the sorrowing lady re- 
veal the secret origin of her woe. This was to a 
young lady named Anna, her friend and confidante, 
to whom she told the following touching tale of 
Vol. II.— c 



34 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

ancient feud and love's devotion, the source of her 
life's sorrow. 

Her father, Sir Malcolm, of Balarmo, she said, 
was a stern warrior, fierce in feud and war, and 
cherishing bitter hatred against Lord Douglas, his 
hereditary foe. This hatred was not shared by 
his children, who were of milder and more for- 
giving disposition. By a strange turn of fortune, 
Sir Malcolm's son saved in battle the life of young 
Douglas, the son of his father's foe, and the youth- 
ful warriors became such ardent friends that they 
vowed eternal amit}'. Young Malcolm, in the 
warm trust of friendship, so highly praised the 
beauty of his sister Matilda to the youthful 
Douglas, that the latter came in disguise to 
Balarmo, eager to see this charming maiden. She 
proved as beautiful to his eyes as her brother had 
painted her, and his heart went out to her with a 
warm affection which she as fully returned. This 
love had to be kept secret. None dared reveal 
the truth to Sir Malcolm. But his son favored the 
attachment of the youthful lovers, and lent his 
aid to the ardent desire of Douglas to wed the fair 
maiden of his heart's choice. 

A clandestine marriage took place, and for three 
weeks the happy couple dwelt in Pai'adise. But 
war, with its stern demands, brought their dream 
of happiness to an end. Douglas was called to 
fight his father's battles, and Malcolm went with 
him in spite of his sister's tears. 

Hardly had they gone when part of the truth 



DOUGLAS. 35 

became known. The stern baron was told that 
his late visitor was the son of his mortal foe, 
Lord Douglas. Filled with rage, he sought his 
daughter, accused her of deceiving him, and of 
loving one whom it was her hereditary duty to 
hate, and swore instant death to young Douglas 
should he ever again dare to set foot within his 
castle. Not content with this, he drew his sword, 
and at its point bade his kneeling and weeping 
daughter to svvear that she would never wed with 
one of that hated name. She took the oath, 
secure in the fact that the forbidden wedding had 
already taken place, and trusting that her future 
happiness would be safe from her father's rage. 

The unhappy bride was wofully mistaken. A 
few days only had passed when a tragic tale was 
brought to the castle. In a hard-fought battle 
Malcolm and Douglas had both been slain, her 
brother and her husband alike being wrested from 
her at one fell blow. Her grief at this fatal de- 
cree of destiny was heai't-rending, but it was seem- 
ingly for her brother only, and her stern father 
did not dream that her most bitter tears were 
shed for one in whose death he openly rejoiced. 

But the end of the young wife's troubles had 
not yet come. A child was born to her, a son, 
whose face recalled his father's image. Poor 
waif! his fortune was destined to be a stormy one. 
The distracted mother did not dare to let her 
harsh father know the truth. Not while he lived 
could she safely acknowledge her son. The un- 



36 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

fortunate infant was born in a secure retreat, and 
at once delivered to the nurse, Matilda's only con- 
fidante, with instructions to take it to her sister's 
house, where it was to be reared in secrecy. 

A fatal result followed. It was a dark Decem- 
ber day. Wind and rain had beaten all night 
long. The track of the nurse lay across the 
Carron, which was swollen with the rains. The 
rushing flood swept the unfortunate woman from 
her feet, and she and her precious charge were 
borne away to a watery death. The nurse's body 
was found the next day, cast up by the subsiding 
flood, but that of the child had vanished, it doubt- 
less finding a grave in the river's muddy bed. 

The story of Matilda's subsequent life Anna 
did not need to be told. The beautiful young 
maiden, as all deemed her to be, rendered more 
interesting to many by her grief, had no lack of 
suitors for her hand, chief among whom were 
Lord Eandolph and his near kinsman Glenalvon. 
These two men differed greatly in character. 
Eandolph was all honor, Glenalvon all villany. 
The widowed bride had no love for either of her 
suitors, but Glenalvon she despised, and he, de- 
spairing of winning her by honorable suit, sought 
to gain her by abduction. The infamous scheme 
was frustrated by Eandolph, who met the villains 
and tore their victim from their grasp. In grati- 
tude for his service Matilda consented, at her 
father's wish, to become his wife, though telling 
him that she had no love to give. 



DOUGLAS. 37 

Tears had passed since then. Sir Malcolm had 
died, and Balarino had become the home of Lord 
Eandolph and his childless wife. Her grief, re- 
duced by time, still weighed upon her, being 
added to by the failure of a hope in which sho 
had long indulged, that her son might really have 
been rescued from the devouring flood, and that 
she might j^et see this darling pledge of her only 
love. 

Glenalvon's designs had not ended with the 
marriage of Matilda. He had escaped unknown 
from Lord Randolph's sword, and none knew him 
for the kidnapper. Should Randolph die he 
would be heir to his estate, and he hoped, by 
marrying his widow, to add to this the domain 
of Balarmo. Cupidity and love thus wrought 
together in his evil heart. Randolph dead, his 
widowed wife would have no brother and no near 
kindred to protect her from her powerful suitor, 
and the wily villain felt that only the life of his 
trusting kinsman stood between him and the 
accomplishment of all his desires. 

Such was the condition of affairs at the time 
our story opens. Glenalvon, deeming that the 
time for the accomplishment of his dark purpose 
had now come, placed four murderers in ambush 
near the castle, concealing them in the bushy 
borders of a dale through whose winding path 
the lord of the castle was used to walk. A for- 
tunate chance alone saved Lord Randolph from 
their swords. They attacked him suddenly, and 

4 



38 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

with such fury that he would have fallen had 
not a brave young stranger, whom fortune had 
brought thitlier at that instant, come to his rescue. 

Seeing the old man's imminent danger, the active 
youth drew his sword, sprang furiously upon the 
assailants, and used his weapon with such strength 
and skill that a few thrusts laid the fiercest two 
of them dead upon the ground. Tlie others 
fled, and left him master of the blood-stained 
field. 

The stranger had not come alone. A servant 
had accompanied him. But the coward forsook 
his master in the fight, leaving him unaided. He 
returned after victory had declared itself on his 
master's side, but the indignant j-outh scornfully 
dismissed him, and attended Randolph to the 
castle. Here Lady Eandolph, who had learned 
his service to her loi-d, gave him the warmest 
welcome. 

" Tell me, dear sir, your name," asked the 
rescued nobleman. " You answered not when I 
asked you before." 

" I am but a low-born man," the stranger 
modestly replied. " I can boast nothing but a 
desire to be a soldier, and to win a name in arms." 

"You have modesty as well as valor, young 
sir. Surely one of your high spirit and proud 
courage need not blush to declare his birth." 

" My name is Norval," answered the handsome 
youth ; " on the Grampian hills my father feeds 
his flocks ; a frugal swain, whose only cares were 



DOUGLAS. 39 

to increase his store, and keep his only son, my- 
self, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I 
longed to follow to the field some warlike lord. 
Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. Not 
many nights ago, a band of robbers from the hills 
poured on our peaceful vales and swept away our 
flocks. The shepherds fled in terror, but I, in- 
spired by indignation, followed the foe, marked 
the road they took, and then pursued them with 
fifty chosen men. The end is short ; we con- 
quered : these are the chieftain's arms I wear 
to-day. That battle changed my life. I left my 
father's house, bent on a nobler work than tend- 
ing sheep, and happy fortune turned my foot- 
steps hither, to save your honored life." 

" My brave deliverer ! your soul, at least, comes 
from no lowly strain," exclaimed Lord Randolph. 
" You shall to the camp with me, and there find 
nobler foes than wolves and robbers. I will pre- 
sent you to our king, who is ever ready to reward 
the brave. Next to myself, and equal to Glen- 
alvon, brave youth, shall be your place in honor 
and command." 

" I know not how to thank you," replied Nor- 
val, gratefully. " I am rude in speech and man- 
Tiera, and never before stood in so noble a pres- 
ence. And yet, my lord, I trust not to shame 
your favor." 

" I know you will not," exclaimed Lady Ean- 
dolph, who had listened with a marked show of 
emotion. " You shall be my knight j and guard 



40 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

for me, as you have done to-day, Lord Randolph's 
life." 

" Well spoken," answered Eandolph. " I go to the 
camp to-day. Come with me, Norval. There you 
shall see the chosen warriors of your native land." 

" Let us be gone, my lord." 

The departure of her husband and his young 
protege filled Lady Eandolph's heart with con- 
suming pain. Some words dropped by her lord 
vividly recalled to her mind that other occasion, 
now long years ago, when Douglas and her brother 
had thus left her, to find their death in the ranks. 

" How blest the mother of yon gallant youth !" 
she plaintively exclaimed. " She had the happy 
fortune to nurse and rear her darling boy ; I gave 
mine to the roaring waves, to be swept to death." 

" Weep not, dear lady," pleaded Anna. " I 
fancied that valiant stranger had Avon you from 
your woe. You gazed on him intently, and with 
more delight than often brightens your eyes." 

"And 3'et I found in him fuel for sorrow," 
answered the weeping lady. "I 'thought that 
had the son of Douglas lived he might have been, 
in shape and feature, like this fair youth. I 
looked on him with something of a mother's 
fondness, deeming him in years and all endow- 
ments what my son might have become. Poor 
"wanderer, I will protect him." 

" He will need your aid, dear lady. Your favor 
and your lord's will rouse up enemies against the 
youth." 



DOUGLAS. 41 

" Glenalvon, yes ; he brooks no rival in his 
kinsman's favor. Yet, bold as he is, and 
crafty " 

Her words were not finished, for Glenalvon 
himself entered at that moment, and inquired for 
Lord Randolph. He declared that he had heard 
of the base attempt on his kinsman's life, and 
had surrounded the wood with a band of soldiers ; 
saying that if the villains were taken they should 
be forced by torture to reveal what foe of Ran- 
dolph's had hired their swords. 

These specious protestations were brought to 
an end by Lady Randolph, who, first dismissing 
Anna, told him plainly that she knew him better 
than he imagined, and bade him cease his base 
pursuit of herself. If not, she would acquaint 
Randolph with his dishonorable advances, and 
have him driven from the castle as an outcast 
beggar. She further warned him to attempt no 
treachery against young Norval, the preserver of 
her husband, for if she heard whisper of it he 
should find that she was both powerful to protect 
and to defend. 

With these words she left the detected villain, 
who had heard her with downcast countenance. 
Not until she had gone did the color return to 
his pallid cheeks. 

" By heaven, I feared at first that she knew 
all !" he exclaimed. *' I am safe yet. As for this 
new favorite, I dare not strike openly. Ha! I 
have it I I'll seek the coward slave whom Norval 

4* 



42 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

spurned from him. Such fellows' rankled bosoms 
breed venom. Doubtless he can be made to servo 
me as a useful tool." 

While these events were taking place in the 
castle, the servants of Lord Eandolph had been 
searching the wood which had given shelter to 
the two escaping villains. They found there an 
old man, who fled like a guilty person on their 
approach, but whom they quickly captured. The 
prisoner earnestly denied any knowledge of the 
crime, but on searching him they found a number 
of valuable jewels concealed in secret places in 
his clothing. They brought him, therefore, before 
Lady Randolph, and asked her permission to put 
him to the torture, and thus force him to reveal 
the truth. 

Lady Randolph, on hearing their story, asked 
to see the jewels. But if they had been the eyes of 
a basilisk she could not have gazed on them with 
more horrified intentness. On them was engraved 
a heart, — the crest of the Douglas. One glance was 
sufficient to tell her a startling story; the jewels 
had belonged to her husband, and her own hands 
had placed them on the person of her lost child. 

Trembling with hope and fear, the deeply agi- 
tated lady dismissed the servants ; saying that 
she would examine the prisoner in pi-ivate. 

"The truth, old man!" she exclaimed. "Tell 
it, or the rack shall wrest it from you. How came 
you by these jewels ?" 

" Spare me, gentle lady. These weak old hands 



DOUGLAS. 43 

never assailed your lord. Nor are those jewels 
evidence of crime. Spare me, I pray you." 

'.' The truth, — or death awaits you ! Delay not 
to speak." 

The quaking prisoner at this stern command re- 
lated the story of his life, to which she listened with 
the most earnest attention. Eighteen years before 
he had been a tenant of Sir Malcolm, her father. 
But having fallen into poverty, the servants of 
that lord had seized his farm, and turned him and 
his wife and children adrift. The homeless fugi- 
tives had found shelter in a hovel by the river's 
side, where he supported his family by fishing. 
One stormy night, when the river rushed in tor- 
rents past his hut,, a cry for help met his ears. 
He nished to the water-side, but the person who 
had uttered the cry was no longer visible. All 
he saw was a basket, which a whirling eddy had 
brought into a pool near the bank. This prize 
he drew ashore, and to his surprise saw nestled 
there a living infant. 

"Living!" exclaimed Lady Eandolph, in the 
deepest emotion. " You did not kill him whom 
the waves had spared ?" 

" Kill him, lady ? Not for the wealth of king- 
doms would I have harmed him !" 
" Ha ! Then perhaps he still lives." 
" Not many days ago he was alive." 
" Ah, my heart ! Then he has lately died ?" 
" I have not said so, madam. I hope and pray 
he lives." 



44 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Where is he, then?" 

" Alas ! I know not where." 

" Eiddler, you torture me I Speak out more 
clearly." 

" Let me complete my story, noble lady. That 
best will answer you." 

The old man then proceeded to state that the 
cradle which held the child held also a store of 
gold and jewels. This wealth tempted him, in 
his extreme poverty, to conceal the event, and 
he resolved to bring the infant up as his own. 
Leaving the river-side hut, he travelled north 
with his family, bought flocks and herds, and lived 
in affluence on the secret hoard obtained from the 
cradle. 

The boy grew in years and beauty, and, as all 
his own children died, he loved the water-borne 
waif with a father's fondness, and trained him in 
all the lessons of honor and virtue. The youth, 
however, had shown a temper much unlike that 
of his associate shepherd lads. He was mild 
with the mild, but fierce with the froward, and 
thought far more of arms and war than of his 
pastoral duties. At length a desperate band of 
robbers descended upon their fields from the 
mountains, and 

Here Lady Eandolph could keep silent no 
longer, but burst out with, — 

" Eternal Providence ! What is your name ?" 

"My name is Norval." 

"'Tis he! 'tis himself! It is my son!" cried 



DOUGLAS. 45 

the lady, in a transport of joy. " Oh, sovereign 
mercy, it was my child I sawl No wonder, 
Anna, tbat my bosom burned." 

" Thou art the daughter of my ancient master," 
said old Norval. " But you were a maiden, — the 
child " 

" Is mine. I was seei'etly married. My father 
knew it not; nor must my husband. Can you 
keep my secret, Norval ?" 

" With my life. I loved your father, madam, 
and ever found him kind. He was away, dis- 
tracted by his son's death, when his servants 
thrust me from my land. I love his race, and 
will be faithful to his daughter's wishes." 

" If you should meet the youth, still let him 
call you father." 

" Trust me for that, dear lady. I have traced 
him hither to tell him his true story, and bring him 
these jewels as aids to find his father. Command 
me ; I am your house's servant." 

Lady Eandolph now dismissed the old man, 
first appointing a place where he might abide till 
sent for, and bidding the servants to set him free. 

Then she turned to Anna with a heart that 
swelled with gladness, and gave vent to her rap- 
turous joy in this discovery. Some instinct had 
from the first drawn her to the gallant youth who 
saved her lord from death, but his story of his 
birth had hindered any suspicion of the happy 
truth. Now she ardently longed to see him 
again, to trace in his features the lineaments of 



46 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Douglas and herself, and most of all to tell him 
bis true story and clasp him in her arms as hia 
mother. 

Anna, while sharing in her joy, warned her not 
to be hasty. Lord Randolph was of jealous dis- 
position. Should her tenderness show itself in 
public, before curious observers, deep mischief 
might come from it. 

" The more does it behoove me to declare my 
soil's birth without delay," answered Lady Ran- 
dolph. " Silence, in cases like this, breeds mis- 
chief. I propose to meet him to-night secretly 
and there tell him his parentage and consult with 
him. I deem him wise, as was his father, and 
shall trust to his judgment." 

Little did the fond mother dream of the tragic 
end to her joy which adverse fate was preparing. 
Glenalvon, in pursuance of his base plot, had 
sought Norval's dismissed servant, and bribed 
him to act as his spy and ally. Thus prepared, 
he sent the fellow to Lady Randolph, bidding him 
to introduce himself to her as Norval's faithful 
follower. The scheme proved successful. Lady 
Randolph intrusted to him the letter she had 
written to her son, appointing an interview at 
a secret place in the neighboring foi-est. This 
perilous missive the treacherous wretch first bore 
to Glenalvon, who opened it, read its contents 
with malignant satisfaction, and showed it to 
Lord Randolph, whose heart throbbed with jealous 
rage on finding that his wife had made a secret 



DOUGLAS. 47 

assignation with the youthful stranger. This 
mischief done, Glenalvon resealed the letter, and 
bade the messenger to seek young Norval in the 
neighboring camp and deliver it to him. 

Norval, however, was then at the castle, not 
the camp, and here met Lady Randolph alone, 
her heart still enraptured with the joyful tidings 
she had heard. Her loving eyes, filled with new 
light, now traced in his ingenuous features the 
plain likeness of her loved and lost Douglas, and 
hardly could she desist from clasping him in her 
arms and claiming him as her son. 

" Norval," she said, with difficulty restraining 
her ardor, "now that lucky chance has left us 
here alone, I will amaze you with a wondrous tale." 

" If there be danger, lady, with the secret, yet 
tell it ; my sword, my life, are yours." 

" Know you these gems ?" she asked, revealing 
the jewels taken from the old man. 

" Dare I believe my eyes ? My father's jewels ! 
How came they here?" 

" They were your father's, truly. But not Nor- 
val' s. This is the tale I promised : you are not 
Norval's son." 

" Not Norval's son !" exclaimed the youth, his 
eyes distended with surprise. 

"No, boy. The blood of shepherds flows not 
in your veins. You are of noble birth." 

"Can I believe this? Norval not my father? 
Oh, tell me further, lady! Who was my father?" 

" Douglas." 



48 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Lord Douglas, whom to-day I saw ?" 

" No, no, not he, his younger brother. He— 
ah, unhappy youth ! — he fell in battle before you 
were born." 

" Strange tale, indeed ! Norval no kin to me — 
my father dead before I saw the light — Lord 
Douglas his brother ! My mother — does she live ?" 

" She lives ; but wastes her life in constant woe, 
weeping her husband slain, her iufant lost." 

" You know my story — my parents — oh, tell 
me all ! Your face confesses that she still is 
wretched. What can I do to aid her? My heart 
—my sword " 

" No, no, she now is happy. Your virtue ends 
her woe. My son ! my son !" 

" My mother ? You ?" 

" I am your mother, and the wife of Douglas." 
With tears of joy the happy mother clasped him 
to her breast, and lavished kisses on his lips. 

" Oh, heaven and earth, my mother ! Let me 
kneel " 

" Arise, my son. Ah, how it joys my heart to 
see in your dear face your father's features! 
Hear me now. You are the rightful heir of this 
proud castle and its wide domains. Eandolph 
must yield them to you. If he refuses, Lord 
Douglas shall protect you." 

"Heed it not, mother. To be thQ son of 
Douglas is to me inheritance enough. Declare 
my birth, that men may know me ; but let me in 
the field seek fame and fortune." 



DOUGLAS. 49 

" My Bon, you know not what grave perils sur- 
round you. Yonder comes Lord Eandolph and 
Glenalvon. Beware that villain. He craves my 
husband's lands and title. Your life would stand 
for little in the way of his ambition." 

" Is it so, indeed ? Then let him beware of 
me." 

" We must talk further. I have sent you a 
letter to the camp by your servant's hand appoint- 
ing a time and place of meeting. Leave me now. 
Be Norval still, till time is ripe for you to bear 
the noble name of Douglas." 

Little knew the mother and son what venom 
the serpent had alreadj^ distilled for their desti'uc- 
tion. The letter which Glenalvon had shown to 
rouse Lord Eandolpb's jealousy was now followed 
up by new wiles of the soulless villain. He 
pointed out to Lord Eandolph Norval, who was 
seemingly stealing from his lady's p^resence. Her 
flushed face, nervous preoccupation, and quick 
withdrawal into the castle, served to add new fuel 
to her husband's jealousy, which the insidious 
demon by his side did his utmost to add to. 

" You shall see, my lord. We know their place 
and time of meeting. There we may lurk con- 
cealed and witness it." 

" She never loved me." 

" She betrays you now. Wait, let me accost 

young Norval with ironical dei'ision. If he be 

humble still, he'll shrink before me. But if he 

be the favorite of the first of Caledonia's dames, 

Vol. II. — c d 5 



60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

he'll turn upon me as the lion turns upon the 
hunter's spear." 

Glenalvon well knew the spirit of the young 
man, and with half-bidden insults soon stirred 
him up to such anger that, in the end, Nerval 
hotly drew his sword and bade him defend himself. 

At this moment Lord Eandolpb, who bad re- 
mained in concealment during the angry colloquy, 
stepped forth and sternly bade them to desist, 
demanding the cause of their quarrel. Norval 
declared that he had been bitterly insulted, and 
much as be esteemed Lord Eandolpb, could not 
forgive Glenalvon, 

" You may find better work for your swords at 
present," replied Eandolpb, sternly. " Keep them 
for your country's foe. Eepel the invader, then 
decide your private quarrel." 

" Be it so," they both answered. 

Glenalvon had no intention to fight with the 
high-spirited youth. His aim was but to add fuel 
to Lord Eandolpb's jealousy. At the time ap- 
pointed for the meeting of Lady Eandolpb with 
her son, he led her husband from the castle to the 
leafy covert in which they designed to conceal 
themselves. 

By chance, on their way thither, old Nerval, 
who was lurking near by, heard part of their 
conversation, and listened in affright to their 
words. He heard them but imperfectly, but 
found that they were speaking in threatening 
tones of his reputed son and Lady Eandolpb. 



DOUGLAS. 51 

They claimed to have made a wonderful discovery, 
and vowed revenge. 

Shortly afterwards, the old man, hastening 
from that spot, met young Norval — or Douglas, 
rather — and told him what he had learned. 
" Eevenge ! — for what ?" asked the startled youth. 
" For being Sir Malcolm's heir," replied the old 
man, as he hastened to confirm what Lady Ean- 
dolph had already revealed. Douglas listened in 
mingled joy and sorrow to this confirmation of 
his mother's story, and declared that he would not 
forsake him whom he had always known as a 
fatber, whatever migbt betide. As for his noble 
mother, he continued, he awaited her at that 
moment, and was eager to hear and be governed 
by her counsel. He, therefore, requested old 
Nerval to leave him, as his intei'view with his 
mother must be private. 

The departure of the old man was quickly fol- 
lowed by the entrance of Lady Randolph, who 
tenderly embraced her son, and asked him why 
his face wore so grave an aspect. He replied by 
repeating the tale which he had just heard, that 
Randolph and Glenalvon had spoken of a strange 
discovery and vowed revenge. 

She heard him in trembling fear. Like him, 
she could conceive but one origin for their threats, 
that they had learned the secret of his birth, and 
were determined to remove from their path this 
rightful claimant to the estate of Balarmo. She 
bade her son fly to the camp, show Lord Douglas 



52 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

the jewels, tell him the story he had learned, and 
request his aid and protection. Before parting, 
she begged him to abate his thirst for war, for she 
feared that she might lose him as she had hia 
father. These words were wasted on the young 
man's ardent spirit. He vowed that only on the 
invaders' heads could he prove his high descent, 
and embracing her with a warmth born of filial 
love, he hastened from her presence. 

At the same moment Eandolph and Glenalvon 
burst from their ambush, and rushed out before 
the frightened woman, who fled in dismay. 

" Where is he ? Gone ?" cried Randolph, in jeal- 
ous fury. " Stay, Glenalvon, I go alone. It 
never shall be said that I took odds in combat. 
Leave me to my revenge." 

lie rushed away in pursuit of Douglas, and in 
a minute more loud voices and the clashing of 
swords could be heard. Glenalvon listened with 
a face of wily treachery. 

" Now is my time," he cried. " A double 
slaughter clears my path. I'll take them 
unawares." 

Drawing his sword, he hurried towards the 
sounds of combat. In a minute more Lady Ran- 
dolph returned. The clash of swords had caught 
her cars, and she came flying back, faint and 
breathless. 

" Lord Randolph, hear me !" she cried. " Take 
all my wealth, but spare, oh, spare my son 1" 

The sounds of battle ceased as suddenly as they 



DOUGLAS. 53 

had begun. As the mother's eyes looked dis- 
tractedly towards the locality of the duel, Douglas 
returned, weak and bleeding, but with a sword in 
each hand. 

" My mother's voice !" he cried. " I can protect 
you still." 

" He lives ! he lives !" she exclaimed, in joyful 
accents. " Surely I saw you fall." 

" It was Grlenalvon. I mastered Eandolph: this 
is his sword. But as I did so the villain came 
behind me, — and I slew him." 

" Behind you ! You are wounded ? Ah, me, 
how pale you grow !" 

" I feel a little faintness ; it soon will pass," said 
Douglas, leaning on his sword. 

" Your pallid lips ! — your flowing blood ! Oh, 
Douglas, Douglas, the hand of death is on you !" 

" Dear mother. Ah ! I fear that we must part. 
Oh, had I fallen as my brave fathers fell, I could 
have welcomed deaih ! But thus to perish, by a 
villain's hand " 

He reeled with these words and fell prostrate, 
while his despairing mother sank with streaming 
eyes on her knees beside him. 

" My eyes that gaze on you grow dim apace : 

my mother — oh, my mother " A gasp stopped 

his utterance, and his eyes closed in death, while 
with a cry of agony the tortured woman threw her- 
self upon his body, clasping it wildly in her arms. 

At the same moment Lord Eandolph and Anaa 
entered, in earnest conversation. 

6* 



54 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Her son ! Your words have pierced my 
heart I" he said. " Oh, if he but survives the 
traitor's sword " 

" Look there, my lord !" 

*' The mother and her son I Both dead ? How 
cursed I am !" 

" No, no, my lady lives !" 

Their words seemed to pierce the numbed senses 
of the distracted mother. She struggled to her 
feet and tossed her arms wildly in the air, exclaim- 
ing— 

*' My son ! my son ! my beautiful and brave I 
How proud I was of you and of your valor! 
Now all my hopes, with you, are dead. A little 
while I was a wife ! a mother not so long ! What 
am I now ? What shall I be ? My son, my hus- 
band, call me ! Yes, I hear, I come !" 

Springing to her feet, she ran distractedly from 
the spot. Anna followed her, at Lord Eandolph's 
request. While the nobleman stood there, torn 
with sad emotions, old Norval entered, and seeing 
what had happened, burst into a storm of grief, 
flinging himself madly on the ground beside the 
dead body of him whom he had cherished as a son. 

" My lord ! my lord !" cried Anna, who now re- 
turned, her eyes distended with mortal fright. 

"Speak: what new horror! Matilda!" 

"Is no more. She flew like lightning up yon 
rocky hill, and from its precipice leaped headlong 
dpwn, to dreadful death I" 

"Wretch that I am, 'twas I that drove her 



DOUGLAS. 55 

to it!" exclaimed the half-maddened nobleman. 
" Would that I had died too ! Mother and son, 
both slain by that base villain ! — by me rather ; 
for 'twas my jealousy that wrought their death I 
What is there left for me, but in the battle's van 
to seek release from life's sad bonds ? I go ; the 
foe that checks me there must threaten worse than 
death !" 

And with slow steps and bent head the sad old 
nobleman withdrew from that scene of death, 
feeling that life for him had ceased, and that he 
who should first plunge a sword into his breast 
would be his dearest friend. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



[Of the literary skill of Oliver Goldsmith we 
have no occasion to speak. Whatever he touched 
he adorned ; and his writings, alike in poetry, the 
drama, fiction, essay, and other fields of literature, 
are among the choicest legacies of thoup-ht from 
the eighteenth century to the nineteenth. 

This distinguished author was born at Pallas, 
in Longford, Ireland, in 1728, obtained his edu- 
cation at Trinity College, Dublin, and passed an 
adventurous life, in which he showed a much 
better faculty in getting rid of money than in 
getting it. After trying his hand at almost every 
varity of literary production, and always with 
success from a literary point of view, he ventured 
into the field of the drama; his first play, " The 
Good-Natured Man," being produced in 1768, with 
some success. In 1773, a year only before his 
death, appeared his great di'amatic triumph, '• She 
Stoops to Conquer," which still remains one of 
the most popular of English comedies. As a 
man, Goldsmith was thoughtless and improvident, 
and spent the most of his life in pecuniary diflS- 
56 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 57 

culties ; but he was warm-hearted and generous, 
and full of love and charity for his fellow-beings. 
As a writer, humor and pathos are deftlj- mingled 
in his style, which has a native charm which few 
writers have equalled, and which will make him 
a favorite while English literature survives.] 

In a roomy hill-side mansion of Southern Eng- 
land, at a considerable distance from the metrojDO- 
lis, dwelt a genial but old-fashioned country squire 
named Hardcastle, with a family consisting of his 
wife, a woman largely made up of whims and 
follies ; his daughter Kate, a handsome and sensi- 
ble young lady ; his wife's ward Miss Neville, 
Kate's bosom friend ; and his step-son, Tony Lump- 
kin, his mother's darling, but an unmanageable 
cub, who spent his days in low company at road- 
side inns. As for the young ladies, Mr. Hard- 
castle and his wife had laid plans for their future 
happiness, or misery, as it might prove. The 
fortune of Miss Neville consisted principally of 
jewels, which had been left in trust to Mrs. 
Hardcastle, who had firmly made up her mind to 
keep them in the family. With this intent she 
had arranged in her own fancy a match between 
her lady ward and her son Tony. The courting, 
however, was principally done by the mother, her 
undutiful son having little fancy for being tied 
for life to a fine lady. Miss Neville, for pur^^oses 
of her own, affected to favor the suit. She was 
really in love with a young gentleman of very 



68 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

diflferent calibre from Tony, but felt it necessary 
to cajole the old lady, until she could get her 
jewels into her own possession. 

While Mrs. Hardcastle was thus arranging a 
marriage for the ward, Mr. Hardcastle was doing 
the same thing for the daughter. He had selected 
a suitor much more likely to prove agreeable to 
the young lady, — Charles Marlow, the son of his 
old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, — a handsome and 
cultivated young gentleman, but noted for his 
exceeding bashfulness with ladies of reputation, 
though he was credited with assurance enough 
with women of a lower grade in society. He was 
now on his way to Mr. Hardcastle's house, in 
company with his intimate friend, Mr. Hastings, 
Miss Neville's lover, who had joined him with the 
warm desire to see his lady love. 

Kate Hardcastle had made the following com- 
pact with her father. A year or two's residence 
in London had filled her head with fashionable 
ideas, and she was much fonder of "gauze and 
French frippery" than her old-fashioned parent 
approved of She had therefore agreed that, if 
he would let her dress to please herself in the 
morning, she would wear a housewife's dress to 
please him in the evening, and change her fashion- 
able gayety at the same time for the plainest 
country manners, if he desired. This compact 
was destined to give rise to the strangest series 
of misunderstandings, and produce results of 
which the contracting parties never dreamed. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 59 

Mr. Hardcastle, for reasons of his own, had 
kept secret from his daughter the expected 
arrival of young Marlow, and the purpose of his 
corning. Not until the afternoon of the day in 
which the lover was looked fordid he advise Kate 
of the plan he had laid for her future. She had 
every reason, though, he told her, to be satis- 
fied. Mr. Marlow was young, brave, generous, 
and handsome, a scholar and gentleman ; his only 
drawback being that he was one of the most 
bashful persons in the world. This impediment 
to the freedom of courtship was not much to the 
taste of the young lady ; she had no fancy for a 
timid and sheepish lover, — but a polished London 
gentleman in that country district! — that was a 
prize worth having, and timidity was a fault that 
might be cured. On the whole, she rather ap- 
proved of the situation. 

Kate lost no time in telling her friend Constance 
of the interesting event to take place that even- 
ing, and threw her into as great a flutter as her- 
self, for Miss Neville knew that Marlow was the 
intimate friend of her lover, Mr. Hastings, and 
her heart thi'obbed with joy at the hope that they 
might come together. His advent might create 
awkward complications, it was true ; Mrs. Hard- 
castle was lynx-eyed in her matrimonial plans 
for her dear Tony ; but something might arise to 
overcome her vigilance and set her ward at 
liberty, and the hopeful young lady was quite 
willing to trust to the chapter of chances. 



60 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

While Kate and Constance were in such a state 
of mind over the news they had received, an 
event of the utmost importance to our stor}' was 
taking place a few miles away. In an ale house 
called the Three Pigeons sat Tony Lumpkin, at 
a table around which were ranged several shabby 
companions, of the sort which he preferred as 
associates, while on the board before them was 
a plentiful supply of punch and tobacco. Tony 
occupied the head of the table, as the master 
spirit of the company, and had just finished a 
rollicking drinking song when the landlord 
entered and informed him that there were two 
gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door, who had 
lost their way, and were making inquiries about 
Mr. Hardcastle. 

" Do they look like Londoners ?" asked Tony. 

" I'd take 'em for Frenchmen," said the land- 
lord. 

"As sure as maybe, one of them is the gentle- 
man that's coming down to court my sister. 
Show them in, Stingo. Gentlemen, just you step 
out awhile ; I'll be with you in the squeezing of a 
lemon." 

In a moment Tony was left alone. He stood in 
an expectant attitude, muttering sourly to himself 

"Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and 
hound this half 3'ear. Now, if I pleased, I could 
be revenged on the old grumbletonian. Ecod, 
I've half a mind to try ; he can't out me out of 
my fortune for a joke." 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 61 

He was interrupted in his soliloquy by the 
entrance of Marlow and Hastings, two young 
gentlemen of good figure and handsome feature, 
who were attired in the most fashionable cut of 
travelling costume. They stood talking over the 
situation, Tony gathering from their words that 
they were completely at a loss to tell where they 
were. 

" You are asking for a Mr. Hardcastle, I hear," 
he remarked. '-Pray, is not this same Hard- 
castle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
fellow, with an ugly face ; a daughter, who is a 
tall, trolloping, talkative May-pole ; and a son, a 
pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody 
is fond of?" 

" Why, as for the old gentleman, we can't say," 
answered Marlow. " But we have been told that 
the daughter is well-bred and beautiful ; the son 
an awkward booby, reared at his mother's apron- 
string, and spoiled by her folly." 

"He-he-hem!" stammered Tonj^ not quite 
relishing this picture. " Well, gentlemen, all I 
have to say is that you won't reach Mr. Hard- 
castle's house this night ; unless you want to make 
a road over Quagmire Marsh. Stingo, tell the gen- 
tlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's." 

The landlord, admonished by a wink from. 
Tony, laid out such an impassable route that it 
seemed madness to attempt it, and the travellers 
in despair began to talk of seeking quarters at 
the Three Pigeons for the night. But Tony 

6 



\ 



62 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

quickly advised them that there was no hope in 
that quarter, the only spare bed in the house 
having three lodgers already. 

" Let me see, gentlemen," he continued. " What 
if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; 
the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best 
inns in the whole county ?" 

" You ben' t sending 'em to 3^our father's as an inn, 
be you ?" said the landlord, in an aside to Tony. 

" Mum, you fool ! Let them find that out," 
whispered Tony. "You have only to keep 
straight on, gentlemen, till you come to a largo 
old house by the road-side, with a pair of buck's 
horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up 
the yard, and call stoutly about you." 

'' Sir, we are obliged," said Hastings. " Our ser- 
vants can't miss the way." 

" I warn you, though, that the landlord is rich 
and going to retire from business," continued 
Tony; "so he wants to be thought a gentleman, 
he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; 
and ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you 
that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a 
justice of the peace." 

" A troublesome old blade, to be sure," added 
the landlord ; " but keeps as good wines and beds 
as any in the county." 

" Why, if he supplies us with these, we shall 
ask no more. Turn to the right did you say?" 

" No, no ; straight forward. I'll step out my. 
self, and show you a piece of the way." 



• i 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 63 

While the mischievous young rascal was thus 
planting the seeds of future misconception, his 
worthy father-in-law was engaged in training in 
table exercises a corps of servants taken from 
the plow and the barn-yard. His efforts in this 
direction were far from successful ; he found the 
rustics incorrigible dunces ; and in the midst of 
his lessons a post-chaise drove into the yard, and 
the expected guests were shown into the house. 

The two young gentlemen, full of the idea that 
they were in an inn, were ushered into the room 
which Mr. Hardcastle and the seiwants had just 
vacated. They gazed approvingly at its hand- 
some and comfortable appointments, though with 
the fear that they would be made to pay for all 
this elegance in their bill. From admiring the 
room, they fell to talking of more personal sub- 
jects, the question of Marlow's diffidence being 
broached. 

" 1 don't know how, but a single glance fi-om a 
pair of fine eyes robs me of all my courage," he 
remarked. "An impudent fellow may counter- 
feit modesty ; but I'll be hanged if a modest man 
can ever counterfeit impudence." 

" I don't understand you, man. I have heard 
you lavish hosts of fine things on the bar- maid of 
an inn." 

" Your fine ladies petrify me, George. To me, 
a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is 
the most tremendous object of the whole cre- 
ation. This stammer in my address, and this 



64 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

awkward Pshaw ! this fellow here to inter- 
rupt us !" 

The fellow alluded to was Mr. Hardcastle him- 
self, who entered the room in a very gracious 
manner, bidding his guests heartily welcome to 
his fireside. The young travellers, thinking him 
but a garrulous landlord, paid little attention to 
what he said, and went on to talk of their pur- 
pose in visiting his house as freely as if he were 
not in the room. 

"Pray be under no restraint in this house," 
said the surprised old gentleman. " This is 
Liberty Hall. You may do just as you please 
here." 

The visitors took him at his word, for when he 
began to tell one of the long-winded military 
anecdotes of which he had an abundant store at 
his command, they chatted on without listening 
to a word he said. Marlow at length interrupted 
him with, — 

" What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass 
of punch in the mean time ? It would help us to 
carry on the siege with vigor." 

"Punch, sir! This is the most unaccountable 
kind of modesty I ever met with," said Hard- 
castle to himself. 

" Yes, sir, punch. This is Liberty Hall, you 
know." 

This was but the beginning of Mr. Hardcastle's 
bewilderment. From punch they turned to the 
question of provender, demanding to know what 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 65 

he had in the house for supper; and when he, 
after some persuasion, sent for the bill of fare, 
one did not like this, and the other could not bear 
that, till their host stood overwhelmed by their 
impudence. 

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he broke out at last, 
" that I have nothing you like ; but if there be 
anything you have a particular fancy to " 

"Why, sir," interrupted Marlow, "your bill of 
fare is so. exquisite that any one part of it is 
fully as good as another. Send us what you 
please. So much for supper: and now to see 
that our beds are aired and properly taken care 
of." 

" I entreat you, leave all that to me. You shall 
not stir a step." 

" Leave it to you ? No, indeed ; I always look 
to these things myself." 

" 1 must insist, sir, that you make yourself easy 
on that head." 

" You see I'm resolved on it," said Marlow ; 
adding in an aside, "A very troublesome old 
fellow, this !" 

" Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you," 
answered Hardcastle; continuing to himself, 
" This may be modern modesty ; but I never saw 
anything look so like old-fashioned impudence." 

They left the room together, Hastings remaining 
behind. 

" This fellow's civilities begin to grow trouble- 
some," he said. " Yet they are meant to please 

Vol. II.— e 6* 



66 TALES FROJI THE DRAMATISTS. 

Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all that's 
happy 1" 

"My dear George!" exclaimed Miss Neville, 
who entered the room at that moment. " This is 
a happy meeting, indeed." 

" And a surprising one. I never dreamed of 
meeting my dear Constance at an inn." 

" An inn !" she echoed, in surprise. " Mr. Hard- 
castle's house an inn I What gave you such a 
strange idea ?" 

" Mr. Marlow and I were sent here as to an inn. 
A young fellow, a mile below here, told us " 

"Ha! ha! ha! that is one of my hopeful 
cousin's tricks." 

" What ! the lout whom your aunt intends for 
you, and of whom I have had such apprehen- 
sions ?" 

" You need not, George. You'd adore the fel- 
low if you knew how heartily he despises me." 

"An inn! Ha! ha! ha! But Marlow must be 
kept in ignorance. If he knew the truth his 
modesty would drive him out of the house within 
the hour. We must keep up the deception." 

" But how ? Miss Hardcastle has been out 
walking, but will be here in a few minutes. Is 
this Mr. Marlow, now ?" 

Marlow entered as she spoke, complaining of 
the annoying attentions of the landlord, whom he 
found to be a troublesome old bore. He was 
somewhat taken aback on being introduced to 
Miss Neville, and told that Miss Hardcastle had 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 67 

stopped at the inn with her, and that he would 
see her in a moment. Every spark of his assur- 
ance died out at the thought of meeting her thus 
suddenly, and he was only kept from taking to 
flight by Hastings' promise to support him. 

In the midst of their conference Miss Hardcastle 
entered, in a walking dress. Miss Neville at once 
introduced her to the gentlemen, and a conversa- 
tion ensued, during which Marlow never once 
hfted his eyes to the young lady's face, and hardly 
spoke a word except as prompted by his more 
collected friend. 

" Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Mar- 
low are going to be very good company," said 
Hastings, at length. " We are only in your way." 

" Not in the least !" exclaimed Marlow, hastily. 
" We like your company of all things. — Zounds, 
George," he whispered to him, "you won't go?" 

" Consider, man, Miss Neville and I must have 
a little tete-d-tete of our own," and Hastings 
wickedly walked out with his inamorata, leaving 
Marlow in a fit of the most embarrassing ner- 
vousness. 

An amusing conversation followed, in which 
Miss Hardcastle led, and Marlow stumblingly en- 
deavored to reply. 

" You were observing, sir," she went on, after 
some ridiculous remark on the part of the gentle- 
man, " that in this age of hypocrisy — something 
about hypocrisy." 

•' Yes, madam ; iii this age of hypocrisy, there 



68 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

are few "who, upon strict inquiiy, do not — 

" I understand you perfectly, sir." 

" That is more than I do myself," said Marlow, 

in an aside. " Yes, madam, as I was saying 

But I am sure I tire you." 

"Not in the least, sir; there's something so 
agreeable and spirited in your manner; such life 
and force ; pray, sir, go on." 

" I was saying," continued Marlow, his nervous- 
ness increasing, "that there are some occasions, — 
when a want of courage destroys all the — and 
puts us — upon a-a-a " 

" I agree with you entirely." 

"Yes, madam, morally speaking. But I see 
Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. We 
must not detain her. Shall I have the honor to 
attend j^ou, madam ?" 

"I'll follow, sir." 

" This pretty, smooth dialogue has done for me," 
groaned Marlow to himself, as he escaped from 
the room. 

" Ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed Miss Hardcastle, when 
he had vanished, " did any one ever talk such 
sober, sentimental nonsense ? And he never 
looked in my face the whole time ! Yet he would 
do pretty well, only for his ridiculous bashfulness. 
If I could only teach him a little confidence, 



now !" 



Marlow had fibbed slightly ; Miss Neville was 
not in the next room. She and Hastings had 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 69 

passed on to another apartment, in which they 
found Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. Miss Neville 
introduced her lover to the old lady, and left them 
engaged in conversation, while she devoted her- 
self to Tony, who was anything but pleased with 
her attentions. 

" It's very hard to be followed about so," he 
broke out at length, in a pet. " Ecod, I've not a 
place left me in the house now, but the stable." 

" Cousin Tony is generous," said the teasing 
young lady. " He falls out before faces that he 
may be forgiven in private." 

"That's a confounded — crack!" said Tony, 
testily. 

Mrs. Hardcastle, who had been uneasily watch- 
ing them, now came to the rescue, declaring that 
there never was a pair better matched by nature. 
Her dear Tonj^ was the picture of his cousin even 
in height. To prove this, she set them back to 
back ; when the mischievous young scamp, whose 
temper was much ruffled, gave the young lady 
such a crack with the back of his head that the 
air before her danced with stars. This perverse 
behavior was too much for the doting mother. 
She left the room in tears, followed by Miss 
Neville, while Hastings proceeded to lecture her 
graceless son severely on his bad behavior. 

The lecture proved not very successful. Tony 
gave Hastings very freely his opinion of his 
cousin, whom he spoke of as a bitter, cantankerous 
toad, full of tricks, and her beauty all made up. 



70 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" What would you say to a friend who would 
take this bitter bargain off your hands?" asked 
Ilastinirs. 

" Where is there such a friend ? Who would 
take her?" demanded Tony. 

" He stands before you. If you but assist me, 
I'll engage to whip her off to France, and you 
shall never hear more of her." 

" Assist you ? Ecod, I wiir, to the last drop of 
my blood ! I'll clap a pair of horses to your 
chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling; 
and maybe get you a part of her fortune besides, 
in jewels, that you little dream of" 

" My dear squire, this looks like a lad of spirit." 

"Come along, then, and you shall see more of 
my spirit before you have done with me," and 
Tony led the way from the room, singing an ale- 
house ditty as he went. 

Mrs. Hardcastle's undutiful son was as good as 
his word. The young scamp had keys to all his 
mother's drawers, which he had often used for 
the purpose of helping himself to funds for his 
ale-house frolics. By their aid he now quickly 
made himself master of the casket containino^ 
Miss Neville's jewels, which he delivered into 
Hastings' hands. 

While the worthy pair were thus helping them- 
selves by what Tony called " the rule of thumb," 
Miss Neville, who had laid her plans with her 
lover, was seeking to obtain her jewels by the 
more honorable method of persuasion. She found 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 71 

Mrs. Hardcastle, however, hard to convince. " It 
vrill be time enough for jewels twenty years 
hence. Jewels are not worn at present. Yours 
are only a parcel of old-fashioned rose and table- 
cut things." These and other reasons she gave for 
not delivering them, ending by saying, " they may 
be missing, for aught I know to the contrary." 

" Tell her so at once," whispered the mischievous 
Tony, who had come into the room during this 
conversation. " Tell her they're lost, and call me 
to bear witness. It's the only way to quiet her." 

This suggestion was accepted by the astute 
guardian. She declared that the jewels were 
missing ; an assertion which Tony professed he 
was ready to take oath to. The old lady ac- 
knowledged, however, that she was responsible 
for their value, and said that if Constance was 
80 anxious for jewels, she would lend her her own 
garnets. 

Mrs. Hardcastle left the room to procure these, 
and her tricky son took advantage of the oppor- 
tunity to bid Miss Neville hasten to her lover, 
who would tell her something to her satisfaction 
about the jewels. " Vanish !" he cried. " He has 
them. She's here, and has missed them already." 

Miss Neville hastened from the room, at the 
same moment that Mrs. Hardcastle entered in a 
panic of excitement. "Thieves! robbers! We are 
cheated, robbed, plundered !" she cried. 

"What's the matter, mamma?" asked Tony, 
innocently. 



72 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" My bureau has been broken open and the 
jewels taken ! We are robbed, undone !" 

" Oh I is that all ! lla ! ha ! ha ! by the laws, 
I never saw it better acted in my life ! Ecod, I 
thought you was ruined in earnest ; ha ! ha ! ha !" 

" Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. The jewels 
are stolen, I say." 

" Stick to that ; ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that ; I'll 
bear witness, you know; call me to bear witness." 

" M}^ dearest Tony, hear me. By all that's 
precious, the jewels are really gone." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! mamma. I know who took 
them well enough ; ha ! ha ! ha !" 

And the mischievous rogue kept up his pro- 
voking show of belief in her skill as an actress, till 
the badgered woman finally drove him from the 
room, calling him fool and unfeeling brute, to all 
of which he returned the same provoking answer, 
*' I can bear witness to that." 

While the affairs of Hastings and Miss Neville 
were making this favorable progress, those of 
Mario w and Miss Hardcastle had reached an in- 
teresting phase. In compliance with her compact 
with her father, Kate had laid aside her fashion- 
able attire, and put on a plain housewife's dress, 
in which garb she presented herself for his ap- 
proval. He thanked her for her obedience to his 
wishes, and entered into a conversation with her 
about her lover, in which it soon appeared that 
there was a decided difference of opinion. Kate 
described him as the most bashful man it had 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 73 

ever been her fortune to meet ; her father, as " the 
most imi)udent piece of brass that ever spoke with 
a tongue." 

"He met me with a respectful bow, a stammer- 
ing voice, and a look fixed on the gi'ound," she 
affirmed. 

" He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a 
familiarity that made my blood freeze," he replied ; 
" and interrupted my best stories by asking me if 
1 was not a good hand at making punch." 

" One of us must certainly be mistaken," an- 
swered Kate. 

" If he be the impudent fellow he seems, I am 
determined he shall never have my consent." 

"And if he prove the sullen thing I found 
him, he shall never have mine. But as one of us 
must be mistaken, what if we go on to make fur- 
ther discoveries ?" 

" Depend on't, I'm in the right," declared Mr. 
Hardcastle, positively. 

"And depend on't, I'm not in the wrong," an- 
swered his daughter, as positively. 

Kate Hardcastle was destined soon to behold 
her lover in a new light. Still full of the idea that 
Mr. Hardcastle's house was an inn, he chanced to 
see the young lady in her plain attire, and, misled 
by his mistaken fancy, asked her maid if this were 
not the bar-maid. His error was quickly reported 
by the maid to her mistress, who resolved to take 
advantage of it, remembering Marlow's reputation 
for gallantry with women in that rank of life. 
D 7 



74 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Can you act your part, and disguise j^our voice, 
BO that he may not discover you ?" asked the maid. 

" Never fear me. I thinic I know the true bar 
cant. 'Did your honor call? Attend the Lion 
there. Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. The 
Lamb has been outrageous this half hour.' " 

" That will do, madam. And here he comes." 

The maid hastened away, leaving her mistress 
to practise her new lesson on Marlow, who just 
then entered the room, grumbling to himself at 
the annoyance which he received from the assid- 
uous attentions of the host and hostess. 

He walked about in a musing humor. "As for 
Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental 
for me." 

"Did you call, sir? Did your honor call?" 
asked the seeming bar-maid. 

" No, child Besides," he resumed, " from 

the glimpse I had of her I think she squints." 

" I am sure, sir, the bell rang." 

" No, no Well, I've pleased my father by 

coming. To-morrow, I'll please myself by re- 
turning." 

" Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir." 

" No, no, I tell you." He now for the first time 
lifted his eyes to her face, and was struck by her 
modest beauty. " Yes, I think I did call. I 

wanted — I wanted I vow, child, you are 

vastly handsome." 

"Oh-f la, sir, you'll make one ashamed." 

The conversation thus auspiciously begun went 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 75 

on at a rattling pace. All Marlow's diffidence 
vanished, and in a very few minutes he Avas mak- 
ing an earnest show of love to the supposed bai-- 
maid, whose beauty, in her neat housewife's dress, 
was certainly very attractive. 

"I'm sure you didn't talk this way to Miss 
Hardcastle," she protested. " I'll warrant me you 
looked as dashed before her as if she was a justice 
of the peace." 

" In awe of her, child ! A mere awkward, 
squinting thing ! No, no ; I find you don't know 
me. I merely rallied her a little." 

" Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite among the 
ladies ?" 

"A great favorite, my dear. At the ladies' 
club in town, I'm called their agreeable Rattle. 
Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm 

known by. My name is " He attempted to 

kiss hei', but found herself modestly repulsed. 

Marlow, however, as the conversation continued, 
found his fancy so enslaved by the beauty and 
vivacity of the seeming bar-maid that he went 
beyond the boundaries of discretion, seizing her 
hand, and attempting to take by force the kiss 
she had refused. At this moment, to his confusion, 
he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Mr. 
Hardcastle. He dropped the young lady's hand, 
and left the room in haste. 

" So, miss, is this your modest lover ?" exclaimed 
the astounded old gentleman. "Kate, Kate, are 
you not ashamed to deceive your father so ?" 



76 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Believe me, papa, he is still the modest man I 
took him for: you shall be convinced of it." 

" Convinced ! Would you drive mo mad ? You 
may like this impudence, and call it modesty ; but 

Why I saw him seize your hand and haul 

you about like a milkmaid ! The brazen rascal 
shall never bo son-in-law of mine !" 

" Give me but an hour to convince you." 

"An hour be it, then. But all must be fair and 
open. No trifling with your father, Kate." 

" Your wishes shall be my commands, dear 
papa." 

The hour's probation thus agreed upon proved 
to be one that was crowded with events. The 
first was in the form of a letter from Sir Charles 
Marlow to Mr. Hardcastle, saying that he would 
be there that evening, as he intended to take the 
road shortly after his son. The second was an 
awkward mistake in regard to Miss Neville's 
jewels. Hastings, having his hands full of prep- 
arations for the elopement, sent the casket to 
Marlow to keep for him, as their baggage was 
in his care. Marlow, who deemed the seat of a 
post-chaise at an inn-door not a very safe recep- 
tacle for valuables, sent the casket by a servant 
to the hostess for safe keeping. Thus, by this 
odd misunderstanding, the jewels fell again into 
Mrs. Hardcastle's hands, who took them into 
custody with an eagerness which almost included 
the servant who brought them. 

Meanwhile matters were rapidly advancing to 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 77 

a climax between Mr. Hardcastle and his deceived 
and easy-going guest. While Marlow was cosily 
seated in his host's favorite easy-chair, his mind 
full of the beauty, grace, and vivacity of the 
charming little bar-maid, Mr. Hardcastle entered 
in a testy humor, exclaiming that he no longer 
knew his own house, it had been so overturned 
by the aggressive impertinence of his guests. 

An exciting conversation took place between 
him and Marlow, in which they were sadly at 
cross-purposes. Marlow indignantly demanded 
what more his host required of him. If he did 
not drink himself, he had given orders to his 
servants not to spare the cellar, and he sent for 
one of them in proof that the fellows were 
already comfortably drunk. 

This added fire to the fuel of Mr. Ilardcastle's 
wrath, and he ordered the guest to leave the 
house at once. Marlow replied that he would do 
nothing of the sort ; the house was his own while 
he chose to pay his way in it. 

"It is yours, sir!" exclaimed the host; "then 
perhaps 3^ou claim the furniture as well? Here 
is a pair of silver candlesticks ; there a fire-screen ; 
here a mahogany table, — you may take a fancy to 
them, perhaps." 

" Say no more, sir," cried Marlow, now in a 
passion ; " bring me your bill j let's make no more 
words about it." 

" My bill, young man ! Mercy on me, from his 
father's letter I was taught to expect a well-bred, 



78 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

modest man as a visitor, instead of a coxcomb 
and a bully. I3ut Sir Charles will be here pres- 
ently, and shall hear ray opinion of it all." And 
the old gentleman stamped from the room in a 
rage, leaving his guest in a very uneasy state of 
mind. 

Mr. Hardcastle's last words were certainly not 
those of an innkeeper. But if his house were 
not an inn, what was it doing with a bar-maid? 
Marlow felt that he must know the truth at once, 
and fortunately for him Miss Hardcastle entered 
at the height of his dilemma. His first question 
convinced her that he suspected his error, and 
she made a virtue of necessity by undeceiving 
him, laughing at him heartily for mistaking one 
of the best manor houses in the county for an 
inn. As for herself, she declared that she was a 
poor relation of the family, who kept the keys 
and looked after the comfort of the guests. 

This information threw Marlow into a sad 
stew. To mistake Mr. Hardcastle's house for an 
inn, and order his father's old friend about as an 
innkeeper! The story would surely get afloat, 
and he would be the laugh of all London. 

" What a set of blunders have I made !" he 
exclaimed. "My stupidity saw everything the 
wrong way. I even mistook your manner for 
the allurincc arts of a bar-maid. It is over. This 
house I no more show viy face in." 

"I'm sure I should be sorry if you left the 
family on m}- account," whimpered Kate, artfully, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 79 

pretending to cry. " I'm sure I should be sorry 
if people said anything amiss, since I have no 
fortune but my character." 

" She weeps I By Heaven, this mark of tender- 
ness touches me !" said Marlow to himself. " Ex- 
cuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part of 
the family I leave with reluctance. Dream not 
that I could ever harbor a thought to your harm." 

Their conversation went on, Marlow being more 
and more attracted by her affected simplicity and 
grief, till he was obliged to leave the room lest 
his feelings should carry him too far. As for Miss 
Hardcastle, his artless show of affection filled her 
heart with pleasure, and she determined that he 
should not go if she had the power to detain him. 

Hastings's affairs were rapidly getting into 
as great a complication as those of his friend. 
Through one blunder the stolen jewels had been 
returned to Mrs. Hardcastle's hands. A still 
more awkward blunder was to follow. While 
Miss Neville and Tony were playing at love- 
making, to deceive the old lady, a servant entered 
and delivered the young squire a letter*, which 
Miss Neville recognized at once to be in the hand- 
writing of her lover. Here was new danger. 
Tony's education in the reading of manuscript 
was decidedly lacking, and he was in the habit 
of having his mother read all his correspondence. 
The alarmed young lady di*ew Mrs. Hardcastle 
aside on pretence of something very amusing to 
tell her, to give Tony an opportunity to read his 



80 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

missive, but ho became so puzzled over the 
crabbed writing that his mother anxiously otfered 
her assistance. 

"Let me read it," exclaimed Miss Neville, 
hastil}', snatching it from his hand. " Nobody 
reads a cramped hand better than I. Do you 
know who it is from ?" 

" Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
feeder." 

" Ay, so it is." She pretended to read. " ' Dear 
Squire, — Hoping that you're in health, as I am 
at present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag 
Club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green 
quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd bat- 
tle — um — long fighting — um ' Here, it's all 

about cocks and fighting. Put it up ; it's of no 
consequence." 

" Of no consequence ! Why, I would not lose 
the rest of it for a guinea!" exclaimed Tony. 
*' Here, mother, do you make it out." 

The mischief was done. Miss Neville recoiled 
in dismaj'^ as her aunt read a letter fx'om Hastings 
to Tonj^, to the eifect that he was waiting for 
Miss Neville with a post-chaise at the bottom of 
the garden, but that he needed the fresh horses, 
as promised. Despatch was necessary, for suspi- 
cion might at any moment be aroused. 

To use a homely phrase, " the fat was all in the 
fire." Mrs. Hardcastle broke out furiously upon 
her lady ward, and her son as well. So they 
were plotting together to deceive her! She 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 81 

vowed that she would not be longer pestered by 
such uncertain baggage, but would at once con- 
vey the tricky young lady to her Aunt Pedigree, 
whom she could depend on to keep her from all 
runaway lovers. With these words she ran from 
the room in a rage, declaring that the coach 
should be got ready instantly, and ordering her 
deceitful son to prepare himself to accompany 
them as a mounted guard. 

Here was a fine end to a promising scheme! 
Miss Neville turned waspishly on Tony, and 
charged him with ruining her; but he retorted 
that she had only her own extra cleverness, with 
her Shake-bags and Goose-greens, to thank for her 
trouble. Hastings and Mario w entered a moment 
afterwards, and both set so violently upon him as 
the cause of all their difficulties that for once the 
mischievous young rogue found himself at a loss 
for an answer. 

As for Mrs. Hardcastle, she was in serious 
earnest. Late in the evening as it was, she had 
the horses harnessed to the coach, and sent a 
sei'vant to her ward, ordering her to prepai'e for 
a journey instantly, as she was determined they 
should set out at once. 

" I shall be three years a prisoner !" exclaimed 
Miss Neville, with tears of vexation in her eyes. 
" My dear George, I can but trust to your esteem 
and constancy to wait for me during that dreary 
interval till the law sets me free." 

" How can I bear this ?" he answered. " Happi- 
VOL. 11.—/ 



82 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 

ness robbed from me when in my very hands ! 
You see, young sir, what a strait your folly and 
love of amusement have got us all in." 

" Ecod, I have it I" cried Tony, with a sudden 
inspiration. "I'll bring you all out right yet. 
My boots there, ho ! Meet me two hours hence 
at the bottom of the garden ; and if you don't 
find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow 
than you thought for, I'll give you leave to take 
my best horse, and Bet Bouncer, the girl of my 
heart, into the bargain. My boots, ho!" And he 
hurried from the room, leaving them all in a state 
of new hope. 

That Tony was as good as his word need 
scarcely be said. Two hours afterwards Hastings 
found him at the place appointed, — the bottom 
of the garden, — bespattered like one who had just 
ended a long and muddy journey. 

" Pive and twenty miles in two hours and a half 
is no such bad driving," he said. " The poor 
beasts have smoked for it. Eabbit me, but I'd 
rather ride forty miles after a fox !" 

" Where are your fellow-travellers ? Are they 
fairly housed ?" 

" I should think so. They have been led wildly 
astray, and there's not a pond or slough within 
five miles but they can tell the taste of." 

" Ila ! I understand, — you led them in a round, 
and have brought them home again ?" 

" Just so : they are at this minute fairly lodged 
in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden." 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 83 

" But no accident, I hope ?" 

" No, no ; only mother is confoundedly fright- 
ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. Now, 
if your own horses are ready, you may whip off 
with cousin ; and there's not a horse on the place 
fit to follow you." 

Hastings, after warmly expressing his thanks, 
hastened away, just as Mrs. Hardcastle entered, 
much bedraggled and sadly frightened. Her 
fright was redoubled when her graceless son told 
her that they were upon CrackskuU Common, a 
noted place for highwaymen. The young rascal 
took a malicious pleasure in adding to her alarm, 
affecting to mistake a tree for a horse, and a mov- 
ing cow for a highwayman Avith a black hat. 

As it happened, however, the trickster quickly 
found himself in a quandary, for Mr. Hardcastle 
at that moment approached, taking his evening 
tour of inspection through his garden. Tony, 
seeing him at a distance, hastily induced his 
mother to hide in the bushes, engaging himself to 
face the highwayman, — " an ill-looking fellow, 
with pistols as long as my arm." 

By the time she was fairly hidden, Mr. Hard- 
castle came up, and questioned Tony how he had 
got back so soon, and whom he had been talking to. 
He protested that there was no one but himself; 
but the suspicious old gentleman insisted on an in- 
vestigation. Their prolonged talk had by this time 
so thoroughly alarmed Mrs. Hardcastle for her dar- 
ling son that she now ran forward, exclaiming, — 



84 TALES FROM THE DRAJLA.TISTS. 

" Take my money — my life — good gentleman ! 
Whet your rage on me ; but spare my darling son, 
if you have any mercy I" 

" My wife ! as I am a Christian !" exclaimed 
Mr. Hardcastle. 

" Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highway- 
man !" she implored, kneeling. " Take all our 
money, but spare our lives I We will never bring 
you to justice, indeed we won't !" 

" Why, Dorothy, woman, are you out of your 
senses ?" 

" Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive !" cried the good 
lady. "My fears blinded me. But what has 
brought you to follow us to this frightful place, so 
far from home ?" 

" So far from home ! Why, Dorothy, you are 
not forty yards from your own door. This is one 
of your old tricks, you graceless rogue !" he said, 
sharply to Tony. " Don't you remember the 
horse-pond, my dear ?" 

" I shall remember it as long as I live," she an- 
swered, with a sudden grasp of the situation. "And 
it is to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this ?" 

" Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't." 

" I'll spoil you, I will," she screamed, flying at 
him in such a rage that he ran hastily from the 
spot. 

"There's morality, however, in his reply," said 
Mr. Hardcastle, as he followed at a more sober 
pace. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 85 

Meanwhile Hastings had rescued Miss Neville 
from her diflScult situation, and was earnestly- 
seeking to persuade her to consent to the elope- 
ment. He found an unexpected obstacle. She 
was too much shaken by her adventure to be 
equal, just then, for any new one, and somewhat 
remorseful besides. She, therefore, expressed her- 
self as determined to give up the scheme and 
trust to Mr. Hardcastle's aid for redress. 

"He cannot relieve you though he wished to," 
pleaded her lover. " He has no power in your 
case." 

" But he has influence, and on that I am re- 
solved to rely." 

"I have no hopes," answered Hastings. "But 
since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you." 

While the fortunes of Hastings and his lady- 
love were advancing to this critical stage, other 
interesting events were occurring in the Hard- 
castle mansion. Kate had duly told her father 
of young Marlow's belief that the house was an 
inn, greatly to the old gentleman's amusement, 
who saw at once the explanation of his guest's 
seeming impertinence. While he was still laugh- 
ing heartily at this discovery, Sir Charles Mario w 
arrived, and on heai'inc: from Mr. Hardcastle the 
story of the ridiculous mistake, joined with him 
to the full in his mirth. 

The day's mistakes, however, were not yet at 
an end. Marlow had not discovered that Miss 
Hardcastle and the supposed bar-maid were one 

b 



86 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

and the same, and he still stood in awe and terror 
of the fine lady with whom he had held such 
a distracting interview. Mr. Hardcastle, on the 
contrary, with good reason believed that intimate 
relations existed between the young man and his 
daughter, having seen him seize her hand and 
attempt to steal a kiss from her lips. 

" Nothing has passed between us but the most 
profound respect on my side, and the most distant 
reserve on hers," Marlow protested. " We had 
but one interview, and that was formal, modest, 
and uninteresting." 

" Well, well, I like modesty in its place well 
enough," said Mr. Hardcastle to himself, "but 
this fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond 
bearing." 

" What am I to think of these two stories ?" 
asked Sir Charles, after his son had left the room. 
" I dare pledge my honor on his truth." 

"And I my happiness on Kate's veracity." 

Kate entered the room during their conversa- 
tion, and was eagerly questioned on the subject 
in debate. She astounded Sii' Charles by protest- 
ing that she had had several interviews with his 
son, and that he had made love to her in any- 
thing but a formal fashion. Sir Charles found 
this difficult to credit. That his backward son 
could have so utterly changed his character, — it 
was beyond belief. 

" I will convince you to your face of my sin- 
cerity," said Miss Hardcastle. " If you and papa 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 87 

will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall 
hear him declare his passion to me as ardently as 
you could wish." 

This was an easy method of settling the diffi- 
culty. The two fathers hid themselves behind 
the screen just as Marlow returned to the room. 
On seeing Miss Hardcastle alone he renewed his 
ardent demonstrations, declaring that he must 
leave the house, but that it almost broke his 
heart to part with her. In the end his ardor 
grew so great that he fell on his knees, and, grasp- 
ing her hand, vowed himself ready to give up 
everything in return for her affection, for she had 
won a heart that hitherto had been closed to love. 

This was more than his father could bear. He 
broke from his ambush, crying out loudly, " I 
can stand this no longer ! Charles, Charles, how 
have you deceived me? Is this your formal and 
uninteresting eonvei'sation ?"' 

"Your cold reserve?" added Mr. Hardcastle. 
" What have you to say now, young man ?" 

"That I am all amazement. What can it 
mean ?" 

" That you can address a lady in private and 
deny it in public. That you have one story for 
us, and another for my daughter." 

" Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ?" 

" Yes, sir, my only daughter ; my Kate." 

" Oh !" cried Marlow, desperately. 

" Yes, sir," laughed Kate, " that identical tall, 
squinting la,dy you were pleased to take me for. 



88 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

She that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, 
agreeable Eattle of the ladies' club; ha! ha! ha!" 

This completed Marlow's defeat. He turned to 
fly, but was prevented by Mr. Hardcastle. 

" By my hanfT, you shall not. I see how it is, 
— all a mistake, and my sly Kate at the bottom 
of it. Take courage, man, we all forgive you. 
Won't you forgive him, Kate ?" 

Kate had little time to answer, for Mrs. Hard- 
castle now came into the room in a hot fluster, — 
followed by her son Ton3\ " They are gone," 
she cried ; " but let them go, I care not. Her 
fortune is in my hands, and shall remain there." 

" Who are gone ?" asked her husband. 

"My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. 
Hastings." 

" My honest George Hastings ?" exclaimed Sir 
Charles. '' The girl could not have made a better 
choice ; there is no worthier fellow living." 

" As for her fortune," said Mr. Hardcastle, " you 
know it is hers, if your son, when of age, refuses 
to marry her." 

" But he is not of age, and she has not waited 
for his refusal." 

She turned as she spoke, and was astonished to 
see the supposed runaways before her. They had 
just entered the room. 

" We have thought better of it," said Hastings ; 
*' and have come back to beg pardon for our rash 
intention." 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 89 

" I'm glad to see you back. This may be settled 
in an easier way," said Mr. Hardcastle. " Come 
hither, Tony. Do you refuse this lady's hand ?" 

" I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father." 

" Which you are. Your mother and I have 
kept your age secret, to see if you would mend 
your ways. But since she puts it to a wrong use, 
I must declare that you have been of age these 
three months." 

" Hurrah ! Then this is the first use I shall make 
of my liberty." He took Miss Neville's hand. 
" Witness all men by these presents that I, An- 
thony Lumpkin, Esquire, of Blank Place, refuse 
you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at 
all, for my true and lawful wife. So you can 
marry whom you please, and Tony Lumpkin is 
his own man again !" 

" My undutiful ofi'spring !" groaned Mrs. Hard- 
castle. 

"Joy, my dear George," exclaimed Marlow, 
" Now, if I can prevail upon my tyrant here to for- 
give me for loving her as a bax'-maid, and accept 
me as a lady, I shall be the happiest man alive." 

" Why, if so little will make you happy " 

began Kate. 

" If she makes you as good a wife as she has 
me a daughter, you will never repent of your 
bargain," broke in Mr. Hardcastle. " Take her, 
and with her my blessing ; and as you have been 
so happily mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, 
that you may never be mistaken in the wife." 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 

BY THOMAS HOLCROFT. 



[The author of the above-named play was born 
at London in 1745. His father was by turns 
horse-dealer, shoemaker, and peddler; and tho 
son, after three years' apprenticeship as a stable- 
boy, became successively shoemaker, school-master, 
and private secretary, and began his dramatic 
life in 1770 as a strolling player. In this profes- 
sion he had not much success, and gradually 
devoted himself to authorship, " Alwyn," the first 
of his four novels, being published in 1780 ; and 
" Duplicity," the first of more than thirty plays, 
in 1781. He also made good translations of nu- 
merous French and German works. 

The most successful of his plays was the *' Eoad 
to Euin," which brought him large financial 
returns, and is still classed among acting comedies. 
In his later life Holcroft met with various troubles. 
Being an ardent democrat, he was indicted, in 
1794, for high treason, with Home Tooke and 
others. These proceedings fell through, but party 
animosity injured the success of his plays, and 
he became much reduced in means. He died in 
1809.] 
90 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 91 

Harry Dornton, junior member of the firm of 
Dornton & Co., bankers, of London, had long 
pursued a course of life that threatened to bring 
ruin on himself and bankruptcy on the wealthy 
banking-house to which he was allied. Led into 
extravagance by the foolish indulgence of his 
doting father, he had of late years .grown notori- 
ous for the boldness of his gambling operations 
and the amount of his losses ; there was not a 
sporting match in the city free from his reckless 
bets, not a race without his wager on some doubt- 
ful horse, while his ordinary associates were a 
crew of knaves, blacklegs, and debauchees, — 
human pitch which no one could touch without 
being defiled. 

These excesses had at length driven his father 
to desperation. He loved his son as warmly as 
ever, but was goaded almost to madness by his 
vices, and in the end ordered that his name should 
be stricken from the firm, and no more drafts of 
his be honored. He went even further than this. 
Furious at his son's not having returned home at 
two o'clock in the morning, until which hour ho 
had awaited him, he gave orders to the servants 
to lock up the house and go to bed, threatening 
to discharge any one who should admit the profli- 
gate. 

" It's all ended," he declared to his cashier. 
"Observe, not a guinea to the spendthrift. If 
you lend him any yourself, I'll not pay you. I'll' 
no longer be a fond, doting father. Take warn- 



92 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

ing, I say. Though you should hereafter see him 
begging, starving in the streets, not so much as 
the loan or the gift of a single guinea." 

" I shall be careful to obey your orders, sir." 

" What! would you see him starve and not lend 
him a guinea ?" exclaimed the father, with a sud- 
den change of feeling. " Could you, sir?" 

" Certainly not ; except in obedience to your 
orders." 

" Could any orders justify your seeing an un- 
fortunate youth, rejected by his father, abandoned 
by his friends, stai-ving to death ?" 

Thus the fond old man went on, vacillating be- 
tween anger at his son's vices and affection for 
his person, till the distracted servants knew not 
what to do. This conversation ended with the 
appearance of his partner, Mi\ Sulky, who 
showed the angry banker a newspaper paragraph 
that added new fuel to his indignation. The dis- 
heartening story it told was that the profligate 
youth had lost the large sum of ten thousand 
pounds at the Newmarket races. 

"What proof have you of this?" exclaimed 
Mr. Dornton, trembling with emotion. "It must 
be a lie!" 

" Bills at three days' sight, for the full amount, 
have already been presented." 

"And accepted?" 

" Yes." 

" But — why — were you mad, Mr. Sulky ? Were 
you mad, sir ?" 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 93 

" I soon shall be." 

<= The credit of my house is beginning to totter. 
"What will, what must be the effect of such a 
paragraph ?" 

" I can tell you, sir. A run against the house, 
stoppage, disgrace, bankruptcy." 

These words, and the fatal picture they pre- 
sented to Mr. Dornton's imagination, stirred his 
anger to frenzy. He bade Mr. Smith, the cashier, 
to call the servants together, and forbid them 
under penalty of instant dismissal, to let their 
young master set foot in the house. As for him- 
self, he ordered them to fetch his blunderbuss, and 
loaded it to the muzzle, wildly vowing to riddle 
the youngiscoundrel with bullets if he should have 
the effrontery to appear. 

While this exciting scene was going on within 
the house, Harry Dornton, with his sporting asso- 
ciate. Jack Milford, was approaching the outside 
at the speed of a pair of smoking horses. Spring- 
ing fi'om the post-chaise, and dismissing the postil- 
ions, the young profligate advanced to the door, 
and knocked loudly for admittance. 

The only effect of his summons was the furious 
throwing up of a window over his head, and the 
appearance of his father with a blunderbuss, 
threatening to fill him with bullets if he dared to 
knock again. 

"So! dad is in his tantrums again!" was the 
remark of the young hopeful. 

" You have given him some cause," answered 



94 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Milford. "We shall not get in." While these 
words were being spoken, Mr. Sulk}- had appeared 
at the window and drawn Mr. Dorntou away, 
shutting down the sash. 

"Not get in!" answered Harr}-. "Little you 
know my father. The door will open in less than 
fifteen seconds." 

" Done, for a hundred !" 

" Done, done !" They took out their watches, 
but at this instant the door opened. " I have you. 
Jack ; double or quits we find the cloth laid, and 
supper on the table." 

" No, no, that won't do." 

Despite their bravado, however, it was not a 
very agreeable situation in which the two game- 
sters found themselves. Mr. Dornton, filled with 
rage at the disobedience to his orders, instantly 
discharged the servant who had let Harry in ; a 
sentence wiiich Harry negatived, as soon as he 
heard of it, by telling the fellow to return to his 
duties. 

While the young men stood debating the situa- 
tion, Mr. Sulky entered, and in his short, curt 
manner took Hariy severely to task, telling him 
that, not content with ruining himself, he had at 
last succeeded in ruining his father, whose great 
wealth had been so reduced by the past five years 
of profligacy that bankruptcy now stared him in 
the face. 

Having thus delivered himself to Harry, he 
turned to Milford, and sternly charged him with 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 95 

having ruined, by bis evil counsels, the son of the 
generous man who had loaned him five thousand 
pounds. 

" Kuined me !" cried Harry. " Don't believe a 
word of that, my good grumbler ; I ruined my- 
self; I needed no guide on the road to ruin." 

" As for me," said Milford, " my father died im- 
mensely rich. Though I may be what the law 
calls illegitimate, yet I ought not to starve. You, 
who are my father's executor, should be the last 
to blame me, and should prevail on the Widow 
Warren to do me justice." 

It is necessary, at this point, to tell something 
further concerning the history of young Milford, 
that the reader may the better comprehend what 
is to follow. He, as he had himself said, was the 
illegitimate son of a wealthy alderman named 
Warren, who a few years before had married a 
middle-aged widow, with a daughter, Sophia, by 
her first husband. 

Six months before the opening of our story 
the alderman had died, leaving Mr. Sulky the 
executor of his will. But his death took place in 
the south of France, and the will had completely 
disappeared. He had either hid it too carefully, 
or had given it into the care of some unuiithful 
custodian. The Widow Warren had, in conse- 
quence, come into full possession of the property, 
and refused to help with a penny the son whom 
there was good reason to believe had been made 
his father's heir. 



96 TALES FEOM THE DRAMATISTS. 

What Mr. Sulky now proceeded to say was of 
the greatest interest to the unlucky son. He 
stated that he had just received a letter informing 
him that the will had been found, locked in a 
private drawer, and that a month before it had 
been intrusted to a gentleman of Montpellier, who 
was coming to England. 

So far all seemed promising, but Mr. Sulky con- 
cluded by saying that no such gentleman had 
called upon him, and that he strongly suspected 
that the will had somehow fallen into the widow's 
hands. 

"You are a couple of pretty gentlemen," he 
finished. " But bewai-e ; misfortune is at your 
heels. Mr. Dornton vows vengeance on you both, 
and justly. He is not gone to bed, and if you 
have confidence to look him in the face, stay where 
you are." 

" I neither wish to insult nor be insulted," said 
Milford," and will not wait Mr. Dornton's appear- 
ance." He turned on his heel with these words, 
and left the house. 

He had but fairly gone when Mr. Dornton en- 
tered, white with anger, and holding in his hand 
the paper which contained the statement of his 
son's latest disgraceful performance. Harry 
found himself assailed with a volley of abuse, in 
which " scoundrel" was one of the mildest terms. 
His father told him that he had erased his name 
from the list of members of the firm, and ended 
by passionately exclaiming, — 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 97 

"If I should happily outlive the storm you 
have raised, it shall not be to support a prodigal, 
or to reward a gambler. You are disinherited. 
I'll no longer act the doting father, fascinated by 
your arts." 

" I never had any art, sir, except the one you 
taught me," answered Harry, mildly. 

" I taught you ! What, scoundrel ? What ?" 

" That of loving you, sir." 

"Loving me)" 

" Most sincerely. ' 

" Why, can you say, Harry, — rascal, I mean, — 
that you love me?" 

"I should be a rascal, indeed, if I did not, 
sir." 

" Harry, Harry !" cried the old gentleman, in 
great agitation. " No, confound me if I do ! Sir, 
you are a vile " 

" I know I am." 

" And I'll never speak to you again." 

" Dear father, reproach me with my follies, 
dismiss me from the firm, disinherit me. I de- 
serve it all, and more. But say, 'good-night, 
Harry.' " 

"I won't! I won't!" exclaimed Mr. Dornton, 
as he ran furiously from the room. 

"Say you so. Why, then, my noble-hearted 
dad, I am indeed a scoundrel !" 

" Good-night," cried Mr. Dornton, at this mo- 
ment, showing his agitated face at the door. 

" Good-night," answered Harry, his face light- 
VoL. II.— E g 9 



98 TALES FROM TUE DRAMATISTS. 

ing up with a warm expression, while his heart 
sw^ellcd with an eai-nest resolution of reform. 

It is now our duty to introduce to the reader 
another important personage of our story, the 
Widow Warren. This relict of two husbands 
was a silly old fool, who dressed like a girl, put 
on the vainest aii'S, and set herself ardently to the 
catching of a third husband, — one of the chief 
lures to which was the money of the late alder- 
man, which she held with the greed of miser. 

This coquette of forty summers fancied in her 
silly soul that Harry Dornton was in love with 
her youthful charms. lie came, indeed, often to 
her house, but the real attraction was her daugh- 
ter Sophia, a hoidenish girl of eighteen, who had 
been brought up in the country with the notions and 
feelings of a child, but was as generous at heart 
as her mother was miserly. 

Mr. Sulky, who in spite of his brusque manners 
and show of surliness, was full of the milk of 
human kindness, called on the widow on the day 
after the scene just described, with the hope of 
inducing her to do justice to the son of her late 
husband. He found his mission in vain. The 
woman hid her coldness of heart behind her fri- 
volity, and the graff messenger at length gave up 
his mission in disgust, finding that he could get 
her to talk of nothing but her lovers. 

'• Whom will you make love to next, woman ?" 
he snarled. " Even I am not secure in your 
company." 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 99 

" Love to you ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! You carica- 
ture of tenderness! But if you should happen 
to see Mr. Dornton, do a good-natured thing for 
once, and tell him I'm at home all day." 

With these words she mincingly left the room, 
with an affected air of youthfulness, leaving her 
visitor to make his way out as he pleased. He 
had barely gone when Harry Dornton himself 
appeared. A servant, with a handful of bills, fol- 
lowed him into the house. 

" What are all these ?" asked the young profli- 
gate. 

" Tradesmen's bills, sir. They came this morn- 
ing, and Mr. Smith sent me after you with them." 

" The deuce ! Ill news travels fast, it seems. 
Take them all back, and bid my creditors come 
themselves to-day. Has Mr. Williams, the hosier, 
sent in his bill?" 

"No, sir." 

" I thought as much ; he is the only honest fish 
in a shoal of sharks. Tell him to come with the 
rest, and, on his life, not to fail." 

" Very well, sir." 

The departure of the servant was followed by 
the entrance of Sophia, who had been apprised 
of her lover's visit. She was dressed like a girl 
of fifteen, and had the overflowing spirits of a 
hoidenish country girl; informing Harry that 
she could not think of loving him, however he 
might plead, for her grandma had told her it 
would be a sin to love till she was one-and-twenty ; 



100 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

that Valentine's day was five weeks gone, and 
nobody had sent her a valentine ; that if she were 
to find such a thing under her pillow, or baked 

in a plum-cake, she and so on in a flood of 

childish tattle. 

This interesting love-scene was interrupted by 
the entrance of Goldfinch, a wild young reprobate, 
who was one of Harry's sporting companions, 
and of Mrs. Warren's coterie of lovers; and of 
Jack Milford, who was on his way to the tennis 
court, where a great match was to be played, 

Harry refused to accompany him. He was 
done with all that, he said, and would never bet 
another guinea. Yet five minutes of Milford's 
laughing solicitations were enough to overcome 
his good resolutions, and the three gamesters 
were quickly off to the scene of sport. Jack, 
however, had achieved an unlucky success for 
himself Mr. Dornton, who blamed him as the 
leading agent in his son's excesses, had sued out a 
writ against him for one thousand pounds, and 
stationed a sheriff^s ofiicer at the door of the ten- 
nis court, with orders to arrest him if he should 
bring his son thither. 

The arrest was duly made. Milford sent word 
to Harry, who had passed on into the court, that 
he was in trouble ; but the young gambler, in 
whom the passion for betting was now fully 
aroused, sent word back that he would not leave 
the court for a thousand pounds ; so the spend- 
thrift was borne off to prison, though he piti- 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 101 

fully begged for but five minutes to see the 
game. 

While the young gamester was thus paying the 
penalty of his reckless course, events were hap- 
pening of far more moment to him than an arrest 
for debt. In short, the large estate left by his 
father was on the point of slipping from his 
hands to the unyielding grip of the Widow 
Warren. An unlucky complication of events 
had arisen, through the fact that there was a 
note-broker in London of the name of Silky, — a 
smooth rogue, as soft as silk without and as hard 
as stone within. The Spanish gentleman who 
brought Mr. Warren's will to London made a 
mistake of names, and carried it to Mr. Silky in- 
stead of to Mr. Sulky, the true executor. Before 
the mistake could be corrected this gentleman 
was taken very ill at his hotel, and died there 
after a short sickness. 

News of his death was not long in reaching Mr. 
Silky, in whose greedy soul a plot to cheat the 
real heir and benefit himself was quickly devised. 
Jack Milford's heirship under the will depended 
upon a certain contingency. If the widow should 
marry, the property ceased to be hers, and it was 
the rascal's design, by threatening to make pub- 
lic the will, to induce her to marry some gentle- 
man of easy conscience, who would be willing to 
pay roundly for the prize of a rich bride. 

For this purpose he settled on Goldfinch, who 
had already run through his patrimony, and was 

9* 



102 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

OHO of the widow's most ardent suitors. The 
plotting villain sunt for this wild spendthrift, and 
told him that the late alderman had left not less 
than one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, that 
he had a' hold on the widow, and could make her 
marry whom he pleased, and that his price for 
the sale of her hand was fifty thousand pounds, — 
not a penny less. Goldfinch, who would have 
sold his soul for money to bet on horses, readily 
agreed, and Silky told him that he must get Mrs. 
Warren's written promise to the marriage, with 
a good round penalty in case of forfeiture, — not 
less than twenty thousand pounds. In that case 
the confederates were to divide. To this part of 
the plot Goldfinch agreed as readily as to the 
other, and all seemed promising for the success 
of Mr. Silky's scheme. 

The conspirators were not long in putting their 
precious scheme in execution, but they found an 
obstacle in an unexpected quarter, — the widow 
herself. Mr. Silky called on her without delay, 
and showed her the will, from which he read the 
following significant clause : 

" But as I have sometimes painfully suspected 
the excessive affection which my said wife, Wini- 
fred Warren, professed for me during my decline, 
and that the solemn protestations which she 
made never to marry again, should she survive 
me, were done with sinister views, it is my will 
that, should she marry or give a legal promise of 
marriage, written or verbal, she shall be cut off 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 103 

with an annuity of six hundred a year; the 
residue of my eftects in that case to be equally 
divided between my natural son, John Milford, 
and my wife's daughter, Sophia Freelove." 

" Six hundred a year ! The old dotard ! brute ! 
monster!" broke out the widow in a rage. "I 
hate him now as heartily as when he was alive ! 
But pray, sir, how came you by this will ?" 

This the cunning Mr. Silky made no hesitation 
in telling her, and also in informing her that he 
was ready to help her to a husband in spite of the 
will, no less a person than the handsome and well- 
born Mr. Goldfinch, whom she could have for the 
small gratuity of fifty thousand pounds. 

" You are a shocking old miser, Mr. Silky," an- 
swered the widow. " But I have made a conquest 
that places me beyond your power. I mean to 
marrv Mr. Dornton." 

" What ! old Mr. Dornton, madam ?" 

" JSTo, sir ; the gay and gallant young Mr. Dorn- 
ton, the lawful monarch of my bleeding heart." 

" Young Mr. Dornton !" echoed the broker, with 
a laugh of high amusement. 

" Yes, sir ; so you may take your will and light 
your fires with it. Mr. Sulky, the executor, is 
Mr. Dornton's partner, and when I marry Mr. 
Dornton, he will never inflict the absurd penalty." 

" Very true, madam ; he certainly never will, — 
when you marry Mr. Dornton." 

Mr. Silky returned home, bursting into little 
peals of satirical laughter as he went along the 



104 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

street. The idea of the elegant Ilarrj^ Dornton 
marrying this ill-preserved old widow seemed to 
him so supremely ridiculous that he felt not the 
shadow of a doubt as to the success of his neatly- 
laid matrimonial scheme. 

Unluckily for him, however, circumstances 
were arising which were likely to prove disas- 
trous to his plots, and his own greed and ingrati- 
tude were destined to play a vital part in this 
chain of events. They began in the disaster 
which Mr. Sulky had anticipated, but which 
Harry Dornton had laughed to scorn, a run on 
the banking house of Dornton & Co. The news 
published the day before, of the young spend- 
thrift's heavy losses at the Newcastle races, had 
so alarmed the creditors of the bank that at the 
hour of opening they came in throngs to present 
their bills ; and in spite of eveiy device to pro- 
tract payment, money was drawn fi-om the Dorn- 
ton cotfers with perilous rapiditj^. 

Among these creditors were the tradesmen 
whom Harry had bidden to present their bills 
for payment ; a set of sharks who, through his 
heedlessness as to his purchases, had charged him 
threefold for everything he bought. The only 
honest one among them was the hosier, on whose 
presence Harry had insisted, and who begged to 
let his bill stand, telling Mr. Dornton that Harry 
had saved him and his family from ruin. 

" You are an honest fellow," cried Mr. Dornton, 
warmly shaking his hand. "And so Harry has 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 105 

been your friend ? Come, I'll pay this bill my- 
self." 

While the worthy banker was telling the others 
that he would have nothing to do with their bills, 
Harry entered, and on him the old gentleman 
emptied the vials of his accumulating wrath. 

" I know my faults, and am ready to pay their 
penalty," said Harry, earnestly. " But, sir, you 
have paid my debts of honor, do not let my 
tradesmen go unpaid. The whole is but five 
thousand pounds." 

" But five thousand ! Why, sirrah, you have 
loaded our counters with ruin I" 

"No, no, — I have been a sad scapegrace, I 
know ; but not even my extravagance can shake 
this house." 

The confident fellow was destined to become 
quickly better informed. As they stood talking, 
Mr. Smith, the cashier, rushed in, and exclaimed, 
in consternation, that at the rate bills were being 
presented the bank could not long meet its 
demands. Harry gazed at him with a consterna- 
tion equal to his own. 

" Are you serious ?" ho asked. 

"Sir?" 

"Are you serious, I say? Is not this some 
trick to impose on me ?" 

" Look into the shop, sir, and convince your- 
self," answered the cashier. " If we do not have 
a supply within an hour, we must stop payment." 

" M.J father disgraced and ruined ! Is it pos- 



106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 

sible?" exclaimed Harry, wildly. "And by me? 
Are these things so ?" 

" Harry, how you look ! You frighten me !" 
cried the anxious fiither. 

"Ruined by me? It shall be done! Don't 
despair, my dear, good, wronged father! I'll find 
relief" 

" Harry ! Harry ! Where would you go ? 
What would you do ? Oh, stay !" 

" I'll not be long. I brought this ruin on you. 
I'll retrieve it, if I sacrifice myself tenfold." 

He rushed into the street with these words, in 
a state of desperation that left his fiither so over- 
whelmed with anxiety and fear as nearly to forget 
the impending disaster to his fortune. 

The excited youth had two plans in his dis- 
tracted mind, — one, an appeal to the gratitude of 
a miser ; one, to the love of a woman. The 
broker, Mr. Silky, rich as he now was, had been, 
not five years before, on the brink of ruin, from 
which he had been rescued by the generous aid 
of Harry Dornton. Hany now called on him 
and demanded a return of this favor, begging 
that he would come at once to the aid of the 
house of Dornton & Co., to the extent of fifty 
thousand pounds. 

The news of the impending failure had not yet 
reached the ears of Mr. Silky, and at first he 
freely acknowledged his obligations to his visitor, 
and the wealth which Harr3''8 timely aid had 
brought him. But on learning the danger which 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 107 

overhung the house of Dornton & Co., his tune 
changed, and he suddenly grew poor and embar- 
rassed. He would do anything under heaven to 
show his gratitude, but, — as to putting his hand in 
his pocket, — with the daily demands on him 

In the end the indignant young man, choking 
with fury, hurled the miserable creature across 
his room, and with a cry of " scoundrel !" rushed 
from the house, to keep himself from the tempta- 
tion to murder the ungrateful wretch. 

From the office of Mr. Silky he made his way 
in all haste to the residence of the Widow War- 
ren, now so stung by remorse that he was ready 
to make the most degrading sacrifices to save his 
father from ruin. On his way thither he stopped 
and drank deeply, so that he burst in upon the 
old coquette with an aspect of wild gayety that 
was due partly to wine, partly to affected passion. 

His wooing was begun in an excited manner 
that sadly frightened the enamored widow, but 
when he called upon her frantically to accept 
his hand, she was only too ready to yield to his 
wild appeal. 

" But," he continued, with a realizing sense of 
the situation, "I have ruined my father! To 
save him have I fallen in love ! I must have 
money — money ! We'll be married to-night, 
widow. But early in the morn, ere counters echo 
with the ring of gold, fifty thousand pounds must 
be raised." 

" It shall, dear Mr. Dornton." 



108 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Remember. The first thing in the morning." 

" Why not a part this evening? I have a tri- 
fling sum, — six thousand, — which I meant to dis- 
pose of, — but " 

"I'll dispose of it, dear widow!" He kissed 
her. " Doubt not my gratitude. Let this — and 
this " Kissing her again. 

" Fie ! you sad man. I'll bring a draft. But 
remember, this trifle is for your own use." 

" No, — for my father. Save but my father, and 
I'll kiss the ground you tread on, my empress of 
the golden isles I" 

Harry's aff'ected love for his over-bloomed be- 
trothed was to experience an unpleasant inter- 
ruption. For just as the happy widow returned 
with the draft, and her tipsy lover kneeled at her 
feet in gratitude, and caught her hand to kiss 
it, Sophia entered, and stood aghast at the dis- 
tracting spectacle. 

Then the poor girl burst into tears, vowed she 
would go down to Gloucestershire, to her dear, dear 
grandma, and taking from her bosom the valen- 
tine, — which Harry had sent her that morning 
baked in a plum cake, — tore it to pieces and flung 
the fragments at his feet. 

''Widow, I'm a vile fellow; don't have me I" 
cried Harry. " You are right to despise me, Sophy. 
I've sold myself, and six thousand pounds is the 
money paid down. But I love you, Sophy." 

" You are a base, faithless man !" cried the girl. 
" And you are a pitiless woman, if you are my 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 109 

mother, to let my brother JVIilford lie in a dark 
dungeon !" 

" What ! Milford in prison ?" 

"Yes, sir; arrested by your cruel, old, ugly 
father!" 

" Is this true, widow ?" asked Harry. 

" Sir " she stammered. 

"Arrested by my father ? And you, squander- 
ing your money on a ruined reprobate, yet refuse 
to release your husband's son ?" 

" Nay, but, dear Mr. Dornton " 

" That will do, widow. You'll see me again 
soon," and Harrj' rushed from the house, nearly 
sobered by indignation. 

The half- maddened youth hurried to the resi- 
dence of the sheriff's officer, in which he had 
learned that his friend was detained, and ordered 
the officer to write an acquittal instantly for the 
thousand pounds, for which he was held. 

" A thousand, sir ! it is almost five thousand 
now," answered the officer, " retainers have been 
lodged for that amount." 

"Five thousand?" 

"Must I write an acquittal for that sum?" 

"No, — yes, write it; have it ready. It shall 
be paid to-morrow morning." 

"In the mean time, there may be more re- 
tainers." 

"The devil! What shall I do? Let me see 
him. Send him here ; but not a word, mind you. 
Send a bottle of champagne and two rummers." 

10 



110 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

It had been better if Harry bad not seen his 
friend, for he found him coldly indignant, refusing 
to drink, and in the end angrily declaring that be 
bad been betrayed by him and imprisoned by bis 
father, and all to get him out of the way, that 
he might prosecute his designs on Mrs. Warren 
without interruption. 

This assault took Harry sadly aback ; but 
his surprise became indignation when Milford 
accused his father of meanness and malice. 

" Think what you will of me," he exclaimed ; 
*' but not a word against my father!" 

" He is pitifully malignant," persisted Milford. 
" Not content with the little vengeance he could 
take himself, he has sent word round to all my 
creditors." 

" It is a vile falsehood !" cried Harry, in a pas- 
sion. "Mr. Milford, you shall hear from me im- 
mediately," and be left the room full of indigna- 
tion. 

In a few minutes afterwards the sheriff's officer 
entered, and gave Milford a note, which he said 
came from the young gentleman who had just 
left him. 

" I understand you are at liberty," the note 
ran. "I shall walk up to Hyde Park, where we 
can settle this little dispute. You will find me at 
the ring at six. Exactly at six." 

"At liberty! What does he mean?" Milford 
looked at the officer. 

" Your debts arc all discharged, sir." 



THE ROAD TO EUIN. Ill 

" Discharged ? By whom ?" 

" Why, sir— that is " 

" Tell me the truth at once." 

" I perceive, sir, there has been some warmth 
between you and the young gentleman ; and 
though he made me promise silence and se- 
crecy " 

" What ! then it was Mr. Dornton ?" The officer 
bowed. "Madman, what have I done?" and Mil- 
foi"d rushed from the room in a passion of 
remorse. 

The tidings of Harry Dornton's wooing of 
the Widow Warren, a rumor of which had so 
quickly reached the ears of his friend Milford, 
was not much longer in reaching the banking- 
house of his father. Harry had gone there after 
his quarrel with Milford, and, finding that the 
run still continued, his agony of conscience grew 
so great that he confessed to Mr. Smith what he 
intended to do for his father's relief, and hurried 
out in a fever of disti"ess. 

Mr. Smith hastened to repeat the story to Mr. 
Dornton, telling him that Harry had already re- 
ceived six thousand pounds from his intended 
bride. The distraction of the old man reached 
its climax at this unwelcome news. His son 
marry that woman ? He would die himself first ! 
The money must be repaid. 

" What bank have we to begin with to-mor- 
row ?" he asked of Mr. Sulky, when the latter 
entered, from his strenuous efforts to raise funds. 



112 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"I can't tell ; I fear not thirty thousand." 

" Six thousand, then, is a great sum. But do 
you think I ought not to venture ?" 

" \^enture what ?" 

" To — to take it from our bank." 
 "For what?" 

" For — for the — the relief of Harry Dorn- 
ton I" 

" Take all !" exclaimed Mr. Sulky, in a rage. 
*' What is it to me ? I can stare bankruptcy in 
the face as steadfastly^ as you can." 

" I see. The world is all alike. I am an old 
fool, and so shall live and die." 

" Why do you ask my advice ? Take the 
money ! Empty the coffers ! Pour it all into his 
hat ! Give him guineas to play at chuck-farthing, 
and bank bills to curl his hair I" 

" So, Mr. Sulky, you would see him married to 
this widow, to whom you have often given the 
worst of characters, rather than incur a little 
more risk for your friend ?" 

" Many ? Marry whom ?" 

" The Widow Warren, I tell you." 

" Harry Dornton ?" 

" Yes, Harry Dornton." 

" When ? Where ?" 

" Immediately. With unexampled affection, 
he is about to sacrifice his youth and hopes of 
happiness in order to save me from ruin with this 
woman's money." 

" Marry her ? — Take the money ! Away I I 



THE EOAD TO RUIN. 113 

would starve inchmeal rather than he should 
marry that cormorant !" 

" Mr. Sulky, you are a worthy man, a true 
friend." 

•' Curse compliments, make haste !" 

Make haste he did, for not half an hour had 
elapsed from his son's departure before he ap- 
peared at the widow's house, prepared to repay 
the money which she had advanced. 

He found affairs there in a somewhat distracted 
state. Sophia was half wild between her sense 
of the treachery of her lover, the folly of her 
mother, and her belief that her heart's affection 
was to be sacrificed. The widow, on the other 
hand, was so filled with vanity and conceit that 
she put on the airs of a peacock, and dressed her- 
self with girlish ribands and ringlets dangling 
down her back. When Mr. Dornton appeared, 
Mrs. Warren, who hand never before seen him, 
fancied him to be the parson whom his son had 
promised to send. 

A conversation ensued that was marked by 
ridiculous cross-conceptions, the two falling into 
a snarl of misunderstandings which only by the 
appearance of Harry and his addressing the sup- 
posed clergyman as his father were able to over- 
come. The widow had expressed an unflattering 
opinion of Mr. Dornton, senior, to the supposed 
clergyman, and was covered with confusion on 
learning with whom she had been speaking. 

"Never retract, madam," remarked Mr. Dorn- 
VOL. 11.— h 10* 



114 TALES PROSI THE DRA]MATISTS. 

ton. "Let us continue the like plain, honest 
dealing. As for you, Harry, this absurd match is 
at an end. I am come to say that our danger is 
over." 

" Over ? Are you serious, sir ?" 

" Yes. Our books have been examined, and 
show a far better condition than we hoped ; and 
Mr. Sulky's rich uncle has died and left him 
sole heir. As for you, madam, here is your 
money." 

"Nay, but — Mr. Dornton — sir " And the 

widow burst into tears, " I don't want the filthy 
money. And as to what I said, though you have 
arrested Mr. Milford " 

" Ila I" exclaimed Harry, suddenly changing 
from his aspect of joy to one of anxiety. He 
looked at his watch. There was bai'ely time to 
keep his appointment with Jack Milford. He 
hastened to the door. 

" Where are you going, Harry ?" cried his 
father. "Come back, sir! Stay, I say!" 

" I cannot stay. My honor is at stake." And 
he hastily fled from the room. 

" His honor ! Here, madam, take your money. 
His honor at stake !" Flinging the draft on the 
table, Mr. Dornton hurried away in pursuit of 
his impulsive son. 

" Cruel usage ! Faithless, blind, stupid men !" 
exclaimed the weeping widow. " I'll forsake and 
forswear the whole sex." 

Mrs. Warren was not quite in earnest in this. 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 115 

In the midst of her teai'S Mr. Goldfinch made his 
appearance, and pressed his suit with such vigor 
that the disappointed woman, deeming that she 
had better catch a gudgeon than no fish at all, 
permitted him to " tyrannize over her palpitating 
heart," as she expressed it, and agreed to write 
and sign a promise to that efi'ect. 

Unfortunately for her plans, she had chosen a 
fool for a husband, a youth who was quite willing 
to sell himself for money, but had not the wit'to 
hold his tongue. In fact, he revealed her secret 
to the very person of all from whom it was her 
best interest to conceal it, — to Jack Milford, who 
entered the room after she had retired to draw up 
the promise of marriage. 

In his wild flow of spirits Goldfinch told his 
friend that he had captured the widow, and was 
off post-haste for old Mr. Silky. 

" Silky, did you say ?" 

"Yes. I'm to pay the miserly rascal fifty 
thousand down. Mum ; it's a secret ; but he has 
her ; she can't marry without his consent." 

"Why?" 

" Don't know. He has got some deed, — some 
writing. The close old rogue won't tell. Good-by, 
Jack. I'll make the horses fly faster than ever. 
Wait till I finger the widow's ducats. Good-by." 
And off he fled, after having done his utmost to 
ruin his hopes and the widow's plans. 

" Fifty thousand to Silky for his consent ! Be- 
cause of some writing ! Can it be the will ? It 



116 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

must! By heaven, it must!" And Milford left 
the room in as gi-eat haste as Goldfinch had done. 

While Milford had been speeding to Mrs. War- 
ren's house, in hopes to see and thank Harry for 
his timely aid, the latter was making all haste to 
Hyde Park, to keep his duelling appointment; 
while his father was following him with equal 
haste. Father and son reached the appointed 
place almost together. 

'• What do you here, Harry?" asked Mr. Dom- 
ton, severely, 

" Sir, I— I want air." 

" And I want information. What brought you 
hither? Where's the money you had of the 
widow ?" 

" Gone, sir. Most of it."- 

" Gone ! And your creditors not paid !" 

" No, sir." 

" I suspected — I foreboded this," exclaimed the 
distracted father, wringing his hands. " He has 
been at some gaming house, lost all, quarrelled, 
and come here to put a miserable end to a miser- 
able existence. Oh, who would be a father !" 

The saddened old gentleman was interrupted 
by a messenger, who came in and handed him a 
note. " From Mr. Milford, sir." 

" It is for me, then," said Harry. 

" That is to be seen," rejoined his father, shortly. 
" This is no time for ceremony." He tore it open 
and read it. " ' Dear Harry, forgive the provoca- 
tion I have given you j forgive the wrongs I have 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 117 

done your father. I will submit to any disgrace 
rather than lift my hand against your life. I 
would have come and apologized even on my 
knees, but am prevented. J. Milford.' " 

"Harry, what means this?" exclaimed the old 
man, with a change of expression. " Tell me, is 
it in paying Milford's debts that you have ex- 
pended that money?" 
"It is, sir." 

" But why did you come here to fight him ?" 
" Sir, he — he spoke disrespectfully of you." 
" Harry !" cried Mr. Dornton, looking on him 
with strong emotion, and then suddenly seizing 
his hand. " Harry ! Do with me what you will I 
Oh, who would not be a father!" 

"Dear sir, let us fly to console poor Mil- 
ford." 

Poor Milford was just then doing his best to 
console himself He had hastened from Mrs. 
Warren's mansion to the Doruton banking-house, 
got possession of Mr. Sulky, and brought him 
back in all haste, telling him by the way of the 
valuable secret he had discovered. 

" They mean to destroy the will," he said, on 
entering the room at the widow's which he had 
recently left. "Goldfinch is just returned with 
Silk3\ No doubt they will be here immediately 
to settle the business in private. Here are two 
closets, — do you hide in one, and I will in the 
other. We can hear what they are about, and 
burst out on them at the proper moment." 



118 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" 1 hate hiding. It's deceit, and deceit is the 
resource of a rascal." 

"There is no help for it. It is too late to get 
legal assistance. I hear them coming. Make 
haste !" 

" Well, if it must be so." 

They had hardly disappeared in the closets 
when Silky, Goldfinch, and Mrs. Warren entered 
the room in company. Deeming themselves safe 
from interruption, they talked with freedom of 
their purposes, Mr. Silky telling his companions 
that he did not wish to delay their raati"imonial 
purposes, but first needed their signatures to a 
legal instrument, which he had prepared for his 
own security. 

To make all safe, however, the cautious villain 
first locked the two doors of the room, and then, 
for double assurance, locked the closet doors also. 
This done, they prepared to go through with the 
business of signing. But they were interrupted 
in the midst of their operations by a distracting 
incident, — a knock from within one of the closets. 
They started back from the table in alarm ; which 
was redoubled the minute afterwards by as loud 
a knock from the other closet. 

" The candles burn blue !" exclaimed Silky. 

" Nonsense, it's only cats in the closets," an- 
swered Goldfinch, recovering from his fright. 
"Come, I'll sign." 

He signed the bond, an action in which he was 
followed by the widow. 



THE ROAD TO RUIN. 119 

" Well done," said Silky. " Here, now, is the 
will. That all may be safe we'll commit it im- 
mediately to the flames." 

He was about to hold it to the light of the 
candle when from each closet came two thunder- 
ing knocks, which so scared him that he di'opped 
one candle and overturned the other. 

"Lord have mercy on us!" he ci'ied. 

" My hair stands on end !" exclaimed Goldfinch. 

" Save me, Mr. Goldfinch I" screamed the widow, 
as the knocks began again not only in the closets, 
but at both chamber-doors. " Protect me ! Ah !" 

She shrieked with terror as both closet-doors 
were burst open, and two persons sprang into the 
darkened room, who rushed forward and seized 
the bond and promise of marriage on the table. 
They then unlocked the chamber-doors, admitting 
at one a servant with lights, and at the other 
Harry and his father, with Sophia. 

«' "Where is the will ?" exclaimed Sulky. " Give 
it to me, you old scoundrel ! Give it up this 
instant, or I'll throttle you !" He grappled the 
hoary villain, and wrested it from him. 

"What has happened, gentlemen?" asked 
Harry. "How came you thus all locked up 
together?" 

Not many words were needed to explain the 
highly interesting situation. 

"And now, madam " said Mr. Sulky. 

"Keep off, monster!" exclaimed the widow. 
" You smell of malice, cruelty, and persecution." ^ 



120 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" No, madam ; I smell of honesty, a drug you 
nauseate, but which you must take. I have 
looked over the will, and find that I have the 
power. You have signed a promise of marriage, 
and the money has slipped from your grasp." 

" Let me go, I hate the sight of you ! Your 
breast is flint, flint, unfeeling gorgon, and I abomi- 
nate you !" She left the room in a high rage. 

" Nay, you are a kind, good, cross old soul," 
cried Sophia, " and I am sure you'll forgive my 
poor ma. We ought all to forget and forgive. 
Ought we not, Mr. Dornton?" 

" Do you hear her- sir ?" said Harry, to his 
father. 

" Yes, she has a pure and innocent heart. Take 
her, Harry, you have my blessing and hopes for 
your happiness." 

" La, Mr. Dornton, how could you " ex- 
claimed Sophia, as Harry sealed the compact with 
a kiss. 

And so our story ends. Goldfinch was advised 
by Mr. Dornton to leave off his wild courses and 
turn to trade, but he scouted all such dull modes 
of life. As for the detected rogue, Mr. Silky, 
he skulked from the room, bearing with him 
the sting of Mr. Sulky's very plainly-expressed 
opinions. Everybody else, however, was over- 
flowing with joy, for the loss of the banker's for- 
tune had been averted, and the two profligate 
friends were safely checked in their downward 
course on " The Road to Iluin." 



[The a 
he car; 
certain; ) 

in 0."'' '  
of V 

are rather exte;: 

and while several;>vj4,.s;3Sravi^.'/A\^ft\i.l classed among 

to 



 .ic composition, uu lu. \iii^ ^ 

tW'} I'iays by the end of the century. In his 

liitieth year he became blind, yet continued his 

work of authorship, and pathetic stories are told 

f the blind old playwright's waiting behind the 

"' for the pul)lie ^ -' 




JOHN O'A'EI-: !'■/■: 




WILD OATS. 

BY JOHN O'KEEPE. 



[The author of the play above named, while 
he cannot be ranked among the great dramatists, 
certainly belongs among the most prolific, since 
in all he produced more than sixty plays, many 
of which became highly popular. These plays 
are rather extended farces than true comedies, 
and while several of them are still classed among 
the acting drama, only one strongly appeals to 
the public taste. " "Wild Oats," however, is so 
sprightly, and its leading character such a favorite 
of the theatre-going public, that it is likely long 
to retain its place in the living drama. 

John O'Keefe was of Irish birth, being born at 
Dublin in 1747. His life was actively devoted to 
dramatic composition, he having produced nearly 
fifty plays by the end of the century. In his 
fiftieth year he became blind, yet continued his 
work of authorship, and pathetic stories are told 
of the blind old playwright's waiting behind the 
scenes for the public verdict on his plays, and 
eagerly questioning his little son as to the temper 
of the audience. He was partly supported in his 
V 11 121 



122 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

later years by a pension from the crown. He 
died in 1833.] 

Sir George Thunder, a captain in the British 
navy, had sown his wild oats in his youthful 
days, and had ever since been reaping the harvest 
in remoi'se. Under the false name of Captain 
Seymour ho had, as he supposed, with the con- 
nivance of a seaman named John Dory, deceived 
an innocent young lady, named Amelia, by a false 
marriage. He had afterwards deserted her and 
her infant son in the East Indies, and subsequently 
married again, — a base action which had after- 
wards given his conscience many a bitter pang. 
In one respect he was mistaken, — his marriage 
with Amelia had been a real one. Honest John 
Dory had deceived his scapegrace of a master, 
the ceremony having been performed by Amelia's 
brother, who was then in holy orders. vSir George 
had since risen in rank in the navy, and had kept 
John Dory with him as his boatswain, and, in a 
measure, as his guardian. On one occasion, when 
the bed-curtains of his cabin had caught fire, John 
had snatched him from his berth and flung him 
into the sea, — half drowning him to keep him 
from being burned. On another, when he found 
him drinking too deeply in company, he had caught 
him up in his stalwart arms and carried him 
home, despite his kicks and curses. Other similar 
evidences of John's idea of duty might be cited ; 
but withal, the small-sized but stout-hearted baro- 



WILD OATS. 123 

net loved him like a brother, and would rather 
have lost his right arm than his faithful boat- 
swain. 

Shortly before the date of the opening of our 
story, Sir George— or Captain Thunder, to give 
his official title— had reached England. He had 
hoped to pay an early visit to his son, Harry, who 
had just completed his studies in the Naval 
Academy at Portsmouth, but was prevented from 
doing so by the necessity of pursuing some de- 
serters, who had fled after taking his earnest 
money. He thereupon sent John Dory to Ports- 
mouth to bring his son, and set out in hot chase 
after the deserters. 

Sir George had another purpose in view. In 
Hampshire, whither his steps were directed, dwelt 
his niece. Lady Mary Amaranth Thunder, — or 
Mary Thunder, as she preferred to call herself, 
for she had been brought up in the plain tenets 
of the Quakers. The young lady was rich, hand- 
some, and generous, much of her wealth having 
been left her by a cousin, the executor of whose 
will, Ephraim Smooth, a canting hypocrite, dwelt 
with her, as an unwelcome addition to her house- 
hold. In Sir George's fancy, this fair Quakeress, 
despite her plain ways, would make a fitting 
match for his son, and it was with the design of 
bringing the cousins together that he had sent 
John Dory to conduct the young man to Hamp- 
shire. 

The worthy boatswain failed in his mission. 



124 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Harry Thunder had left Portsmouth before he 
got there. The young truant, in fact, was emu- 
lating his father in sowing his wild oats. Seek- 
ing London, he had joined a company of strolling 
actors, taking the stage-name of Dick Buskin. 
Here he became an intimate friend of a hiirh- 
minded but light-hearted young actor named 
Jack Eover. The two friends, after playing to- 
gether for some time, had left the company 
through some disagreement, and at the time of 
Sir George's visit to Hampshire were in the same 
part of England, on their way to Winchester, 
where they were booked to play. 

Sir George, failing to find the deserters, had 
visited his niece, where, despite her warm wel- 
come, the freedom of speech of the servants 
roused the ire of the old sea-dog, accustomed to 
the respect of manners on shipboard. He roared 
out his opinion of Ephraim Smooth and the others 
so plainl}^, indeed, that Lad}^ Amaranth had much 
trouble to quiet him. 

"Kinsman, be patient," she said, soberly. 
"These are our waj's. But I am glad to greet 
thee, and will be pleased to welcome my cousin 
Henry, whom I have not beheld these twelve 
years." 

Harry Thunder was just then nearer than 
either of them suspected. He was, in fjict, on a 
road in the vicinity of Lady Amaranth's mansion, 
in company with his servant Midge. Their com- 
panion, Jack Eover, had not yet left the inn where 



WILD OATS. 125 

they had spent the night. Harry took the op- 
portunity for a private conversation with Midge, 
whom he told that he had decided to bring hia 
fi-olic8 to an end, and seek his father, whom he 
knew to be somewhere in that locality. 

" My three months' runaway has brought me 
some good," he said to himself. "I have seen 
something of life, had a precious deal of fun, and 
made acquaintance with the noblest and pleas- 
antest fellow I ever met. If he would only get 
over his abominable habit of quotation I Here he 
comes. It hurts me to have to bid him farewell. 
I hope he will not find the purse I have hid in his 
coat-pocket before we part." 

As he spoke, Eover came up at a rattling pace, 
singing a rollicking ditty as he approached. 

" ' I am the bold Thunder,' " he quoted, as he 
reached his friend. 

" I am, if you only knew it," said Harry to him- 
self. " You've kept me waiting, Jack," he remarked. 

" Couldn't help it; I went back for my gloves, 
and fell afoul of a rosy-cheeked chambermaid, 

who Hello ! stop a moment, we'll have the 

whole county after us I" 

" What now ?" 

" That saucy woman put me in such a temper, 
that, by Heaven, I walked off and forgot to pay 
our bill I" 

" Never mind, it's paid." 

" Who by ? Neither you nor Midge had money 
enough." 

11* 



126 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" It's paid, I tell you." 

" You're a jewel, Dick. Come, then, let's push 
on. It's ten miles to Winchester; we shall be 
there b}^ eleven. You're booked for high tragedy, 
my boy, in this Winchester company." 

" And you for comedy. I hope you'll do your 
part well, Eover; I have decided to play in 
another character." 

" What the deuce do you mean ? The bills are 
already up, with our names and parts, to play to- 
night at Winchester." 

The good fellow was sadly taken aback when 
Harry told him that, for certain serious reasons 
of his own, he had decided to break the Win- 
chester engagement, and that they must part 
there and then ; nor would he listen to Eover's 
proposal to break his engagement also, and still 
keep him company. 

"Have I done anything to deserve this from 
Dick Buskin?'' asked Eover, with tears in his 
eyes. 

" Nothing, Jack. I am your friend for life. I 
hate this parting as much as yourself, — but it 
must be. Good-by." 

" I can't even bid him I won't, either !" 

cried Eover, deeply hurt. " If any cause 
could " 

"No cause in which you are concerned, my 
poor fellow ; yet deep cause, for all that," said 
Harry, with wet eyes. "It hurts me to leave 
you, Jack. But — adieu I" 



WILD OATS. 127 

" Farewell, Dick ; if farewell it must be." 

It was with a heavy heart that Jack Eover 
took one road, while his late companion took 
another. Yet his heart was one of such native 
lightness that nothing could long keep it down. 
Chance directed his footsteps towards a locality 
in which were to occur events that would change 
the course of his whole future life. This was the 
vicinity of a farm-house, close by which stood an 
humble cottage. 

The farmer was a hard-hearted and miserly 
fellow, named Gammon, whose chief burdens in 
life were that his son Sim had an honest and 
charitable heart, and that his daughter Jane was 
fond of finery and full of foolish notions. He 
had, indeed, a third burden, which just then was 
weighing upon him heavily. In the neighboring 
cottage dwelt a poor parson named Banks, with 
bis sister Amelia. The farmer, whose wife had 
been long dead, had decided in his own mind that 
this lady would acceptably fill the place of the 
late Mrs. Gammon ; but, much to his chagrin and 
anger, his suit had been declined. Full of re- 
vengeful inclinations, he had bought up a debt 
against Banks, sworn out a warrant of ar- 
rest, and placed it in the hands of a bailiff to 
execute. 

Such was the state of affairs at the time the 
wandering actor. Jack Eover, aj)proached that 
locality. Gammon had just ended a stormy in- 
terview with Banks, and stood fuming with rage, 



128 TALES PROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

when liis son Sim burst in, his eyes dilated with 
eagerness. 

"O feyther!" he cried, "here's one Mr. Lamp, 
a ringleader of showfolks, come from Andover to 
act in our village. He wants a barn to play in, 
if you'll hire him yours." 

" Surely, boy, I never refuse money. Hurry 
and see him before he hires some other place. 
Take a short cut through that garden." 

" 'No, sir," said Mr. Banks. " You are welcome 
to walk in it, with my permission, but not to make 
it a common thoroughfare." 

" Here, Sim, kick open that garden gate." 

" Dang it, feyther, I can't do that !" answered 
Sim, rubbing his head. " I'll do anything for you 
that's right, feyther, but " 

" Stand aside, you idiot ! I'll do it myself." 

" Hold, neighbor," said Mr. Banks. " Small as 
this spot is, it is mine. The man who sets a 
foot in it against my will, must first take my 
life." 

As they stood debating, a sudden shower of rain 
fell, in the midst of which Eover came running 
hastily towards them. 

" Zounds ! hero's a pelting shower, and no 
shelter," he exclaimed. "'Poor Tom's a-cold ;' 
I'm wet through. Oh! here's promise." He 
hastened towards Gammon's farm-house. 

" Hold, my lad," exclaimed the farmer. " No 
room there for strangers. You'll find a public- 
house not above a mile on." 



WILD OATS. 129 

"Step in here, young man," said Mr. Banks. 
*' My fire is small, but it burns with a welcome." 

" The poor cottager ! And the substantial 
farmer!" said Rover, looking from one to the 
other. He then kneeled dramatically, and 
quoted, " ' Hear, Nature, dear goddess, hear! If 
ever you designed to make his corn-fields fruit- 
ful, change thy purpose ; and when to town he 
drives his hogs, so like himself, oh, let him feel 
the soaking rain ; then may he curse his crime 
too late, and know how sharper than a serpent's 

tooth 'tis ' Devil take me, but I'm sjjouting 

in the rain all this time!" The lively fellow 
sprang up and ran into the cottage, leaving Gam- 
mon, who was now in a towering rage, to solace 
himself with deep threats of revenge on his poor 
but proud neighbor. 

During Eover's stay in the cottage several 
events of importance to our story happened. 
Lady Amaranth had engaged Jane, Farmer 
Gammon's daughter, as a waiting maid, and dur- 
ing the scene just desci"ibed was conversing with 
her in the farm-house. At the same time Twitch, 
the bailiff employed by Gammon, appeared, and 
calling Mr. Banks from his cottage, served on him 
a warrant of arrest, on a note for thirty pounds, 
which the revengeful farmer had purchased. 

" It is true," said Mr. Banks, " that I did borrow 
that sum of monej^, and lent it to our poor cot- 
tagers to help them pay their rents. I'll go round 
and see what I can collect from them." 
Vol. II.— i 



130 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" No, sir," answered the bailiff; " you must como 
with me." 

" Old gentleman, come quick, or I'll draw an- 
other bottle of your currant wine," cried Rover, 
at this moment, from within the cottage. " Eain 
over, eh!" he continued, appearing at the door. 

*' I'll take a sniff of the open air, too Eh, 

what's the matter?" 

" Nothing, except that this gentleman will go 
to jail, unless his debt is paid," answered Twitch. 

" What, my kind, hospitable, good old man to 
jaill" exclaimed Rover. "What's the amount, 
you scoundrel ?" 

" Better words, or I'll " 

" You'll get every bone in your body broken, 
rogue, if you don't tell me ! Do you know, vil- 
lain, that I am at this moment the greatest man 
living?" 

'' Who, pray ?" 

" ' I am the bold Thunder !' Sirrah, know that 
I carry my purse of gold in my coat-pocket. 
Though hang me if I know how it came there !" 
he said, aside. " Here's twenty pictures in gold 
of his majesty. Take them and be off." 

" Ten pieces short, master." 

'■ Ten more ! What's to be done ? Ah I here's 
old hospitality," as Farmer Gammon entered. 
"Look ye, old chap, some griping rascal has had 
this worthy gentleman arrested. Twenty pieces 
of the debt is paid ; you pass your word for the 
other ten ; then, over a bottle of his currant wine, 



WILD OATS. 131 

we'll drink ' liberty to the honest debtor, and eon- 
fusion to the hard-hearted creditor.' " 

"I shan't!" answered Gammon, curtly. 

« Shan't ! What's your name ?" 

" Gammon." 

" Gammon ! You're the Hampshire hog, then. 
I wish I had another purse in my waistcoat 
pocket." 

The farmer withdrew in some haste, in fear lest 
this impetuous fellow might learn that he was the 
"griping rascal" referred to. At the same mo- 
ment Lady Amaranth appeared from the farm- 
house, and asked what was the matter. 

Eover tried to tell, but found it no easy task. 
It was not only that the fact of his own gener- 
osity confused him, but also that the face of the 
beautiful Quakeress made such an impression on 
his mind that he had no thought for anything 
else. He so muddled the story that, in the end. 
Banks and Twitch had to come to his assistance. 

"Madam, he's the honestest fellow!" cried 
Eover. "I've known him above forty years. 
He has the best hand at stirring a fire. If you 
were only to taste his currant wine " 

" I beg pardon, madam," broke in Mr. Banks. 
" I have never before needed help ; but obliga- 
tions from a strangex' " 

"A stranger! Then, sir, thou hast assumed a 
right that here belongs only to me." She took a 
note from her purse, and attempted to repay 
Rover, but this he positively refused to take, 



132 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

and ran hastily away, with one of his favorite 
bits of dramatic quotation. 

" Where dwelletL he?" asked the lady. 

" I fancy where he can, madam. He seems, 
from his discourse, to be a strolling actor." 

"A profane stage-player, with such a gentle, 
generous heart !" exclaimed Lady Amaranth. " I 
should not have deemed it possible." 

The good lady thereupon paid the remainder 
of the debt, dismissed the bailitf, and returned 
home with new thoughts in her modestly-attired 
head. 

The handsome face and impulsive generosity of 
Eover had made an impression upon her maidenly 
heart, but no deeper a one than hers had made 
upon him. The whimsical fellow could not get 
rid of thoughts of this sweet-faced Quakeress. He 
sought the inn in an uncertain frame of mind, 
now determining to go on to Winchester, now to 
try his luck in a Loudon theatre, and again to 
stay where he was, and feast his eyes once more 
on the face of the fair lady of bounty. 

While in this state of uncertaint}', the landlord 
entered with the coaching-book in hand. 

" Sir, you go on in the stage ; what name?" 
^ " ' I am the bold Thunder,' " answered Eover, 
using his favorite theatrical quotation. 

"Mr. Thunder," the landlord said, writing the 
name down as he walked out. 

He was met outside by John Dory, who stopped 
him and told him to book him for two places in 



WILD OATS. 133 

the coach. " Whom have you now ?" he asked, 
looking over the list. " Maccolah, Gosling, 
Thunder. — Hillo ! is there one of that name 
going?" 

"Booked him this minute." 

« What sort of a craft ?" 

"A rum one. I suspect he's one of the 
. players." 

" They said it was players coaxed him from 
school," answered John, musingly. " If this is the 
young squire, our journey ends before we begin 
it. Show me where he's moored, old purser." 

Rover was just then moored in the room of 
Mr. Lamp, the manager of the theatrical company 
which had hired Farmer Gammon's barn for a 
week's performance. The shrewd manager well 
knew Rover's ability, and wanted him badly, 
but the stroller had fixed his mind on a London 
engagement, and was difiicult to persuade. 

" As long as I have a certain friend here, in my 
coat-pocket," he began, thrusting his hand in 
search of the purse. " Eh I where is it? Oh, 
the deuce ! it's gone to the devil, or the bailiflf, 
— all the same. Sir, I'll engage with you. Call 
a rehearsal when and where you please." 

Fate, however, was preparing a change in the 
programme on which Rover and his new manager 
had not counted. As Lamp went out, John Dory 
came in. The worthy fellow had not seen Harry 
Thunder since childhood ; but he had seen the 
name in the stage-book, and there was something 

12 



134 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

in Eover's face that seemed to confirm it, so he 
did not hesitate to greet him with, — 

" What cheer, ho, master squire ?" 

" Cheer, ho ! my hearty," answered Rover, imi- 
tating his gruff voice. 

" The very fiice of his father I Come, ain't you 
ashamed of yourself?" 

"What for?" asked Rover, somewhat taken 
aback, 

"You runaway rogue! I've dispatched a 
shallop to tell Lady Amaranth you're here. I 
expect her carriage every minute. You'll go on 
board, I'll go on board, and we'll drop anchor 
genteelly at her house; then I'll have obeyed 
orders, and your father will be satisfied." 

"My father! Who the deuce is he? Come, 
good fellow, you're taking me for somebody else. 
Good-by." 

" Avast, there ! That tack won't work. They've 
got your name down in the stage-coach book, Mr. 
Thunder." 

" Mr. Thunder ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! there's some odd 
blunder afloat." 

" Take care, my lad ; Sir George, your father, 
will change your tune." 

"Sir George! Oho! my father is a knight, 
then ! That sounds well, though he might have 
been an earl, and be done with it." 

Rover, thinking that the joke had gone far 
enough, now tried to convince John Dory that he 
had made a mistake; but the honest fellow was 



WILD OATS. 135 

beyond conviction, and insisted vigorously on his 
entering the carriage, when, shortly afterwards, it 
drove up to the inn-door. By this time Rover, 
in his reckless humor, was half inclined to yield 
to destiny. 

" Does a pretty girl sound well to your ears ?" 
asked John, slyly. 

" Ah ! this Lady Somebody is pretty, then ?" 

" Beautiful as a mermaid, and stately as a ship 
under sail." 

"And, hark ye, is this father of mine at the 
lady's ?" 

" Afraid to face him, you runaway, are you ? 
No ; he's in chase of a crew of deserters." 

"Has the lady ever seen me?" 

" None of your jokes, youngster. You know she 
hasn't since you were the bigness of a canakin." 

" The choice is made," said Eover, to himself. 
" I have my Ranger's dress in my trunk. ' Cousin 
of Buckingham, thou sage, grave man !' " he 
broke out, in his theatrical humor. "To the 
chariot, shipmate. ' Bear me, Bucephalus, among 
the billows, — hey, for the Tigris !' " 

Rover and Lady Amaranth were destined to an 
agreeable surprise. On reaching his destination, 
Rover was shown to a room, where he took from 
his baggage his Ranger costume, the theatrical 
attire of a fashionable young man. Meanwhile, 
John Dory had acquainted the lady with his suc- 
cess. As they were still talking, Rover entered, 
very handsomely dressed. 



136 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

""Tis I, Hamlet, the Dane,'" he quoted. 
"'Thus far into the bowels of the land have we 

marched on ' What! the Lady Amaranth! 

By Heaven, my angelic Quakeress !" 

" Thou !" exclaimed the lady, turning with a 
warm blush on her eloquent face. " Generous 
youth, Ibou my Cousin Harry? Why, when in 
the village I saw thee free the lamb from the 
wolf, didst thou not tell me thou wert the son of 
my uncle. Sir George ?" 

" Because, my lady, then I didn't know it 

myself," he concluded, mentally. 

" Why didst thou vex thy father, and quit thy 
school ?" 

" 'A truant disposition, good my lady, brought 
me from Wittenberg.' " 

" Thou art tall, my cousin, and grown of comely 
stature. Our families have long been separated." 

"Since Adam, I believe," said Rover to himself, 
continuing with a fragrant of stage lore : " ' Then, 
lady, let that sweet bud of love now ripen to a 
beauteous flower.' " 

"Love!" she exclaimed, astonished, though not 
altogether displeased, by the ardor of his quota- 
tion, 

" ' Excellent wench I perdition catch my soul, 
but I do love thee ; and when I love thee not, 
chaos is come again.' " 

The wild fellow rattled on in this reckless 
fashion, his talk more than half quotations from 
plays, while the pretty young Quakeress thought 



WILD OATS. 137 

that, in spite of his strange humor, she had nevei' 
met so pleasant a gentleman in her life as her new- 
found cousin. His rattle about love fell in mellow 
accents upon her ear, the more so that there was 
a dejith bej'ond mere acting in Eover's tones. 
The handsome pair, indeed, bade fair, unless they 
were soon interrupted, to drift from sham cousin- 
ship into real love. 

The interruption came in the form of Farmer 
Gammon and Lamp, the manager, their purpose 
being to ask the lady's permission to act a few 
plays in the town. The worthy pair found them- 
selves considerably astonished. Gammon, on 
being told to request permission from young 
Squire Thunder to lease his barn for the play, 
looked in Eover's face, and sneaked off. He could 
hope for no favor from the man whom he had 
recently accosted as a vagrant. 

Lamp found himself in almost as great a quan- 
dary. Was this the Rover with whose name he 
had billed the country ? 

" Would you have a gentleman born take the 
part of a poor strolling dog, and help you to 
murder Shakespeare?" asked Rover, with an air 
of great severity. 

" But, gentle sir, you gave your word, and I 
have billed your name, and trumpeted your fame 
for ten miles around." 

" If thou hast promised, cousin," said Lady 
Amaranth, "thou shouldst keep thy word. I 

favor not play-acting, but " 

12* 



138 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Never in Gammon's barn, if I die for it ! If 
play I must, it shall never be in that inhuman 
rogue's precincts." 

" Barn ! no," answered the lady. " The gallery 
of my house shall be thy theatre. I have invited 
the gentry round to my house-warming, and thou 
and these actors shall play before us, in spite of 
the grave doctrines of Ephraim Smooth." 

" Thanks, ray kind lady ! You hear, bully 
Lamp? Bring your carpenters, your scene- 
shifters, all 3'our lively crew ; we'll show these 
Hampshire folks what we can do." 

The sham Harry Thunder, thus masquerading 
in his assumed name, little dreamed of the state 
of affairs which had meanwhile arisen at the inn. 
The real Harry Thunder had reached there, hav- 
ing first taken a considerable round to rid him- 
self effectually of his roving friend. As he talked 
with Midge in one room. Sir George entered 
another, out of wind and temper from his fruit- 
less search for the deserters, and full of anger at 
the runaway frolic of his truant son. 

As he stood fuming, and cursing the landlord, 
the fates, and the world in general, John Dory 
entered. 

"John, you sea-dog!" he roared, "how now? 
have you taken the places in the London coach ? 
You grin, you rascal! Have you heard anything 
of my son ?" 

"What's o'clock?" asked John, with a cunning 
leer. 



WILD OATS. 139 

" "What the blazes does it matter ?" 

" Only, if it's two, Master Harry is at this min- 
ute walking with Lady Amaranth in her garden ; 
if half after, they've cast anchor to rest among 
the posies ; if three, they're up again ; if four " 

" Ahoy, you rogue ! what's in your noddle, 
now?" 

" The boy is at Lady Amaranth's, I tell you. 
Such a merry, crazy, crack-brained fellow, — the 
very picture of your honor ! Bless you, if he 
wasn't on his knees to her in half an hour; and 
in an hour had his arms around her, and was 
giving her a bouncing smack." 

"Huzza! victory!" cried Sir George, gayly. 
" John, you shall have a bowl for a jolly-boat, 
and a lake of punch to navigate in. Away 
with you, and order a bumper now." 

Out went John, happy as an admiral, and, a 
minute after, in came Harry, to find his father 
dancing with gayety. 

" I must have left my cane in this room," said 
Harry, looking round him. " Zounds ! my father 
here !" 

" Harry, you jackanapes ! How could you 
shear off from the fair Quaker, and the afternoon 
not half spent ?" 

We will not repeat the conversation that ensued 
between father and son. It will suffice to say that 
it was full of cross purposes, and that by the 
time John Dory returned they had got themselves 
into a deep snarl of misunderstandings. John's 



140 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

presence added to the difficulty. Ignorant that 
this was the true IIarrj% ho roundly declared that 
ho had taken Sir George's son to Lady Ama- 
ranth's. Harry declared that this was false ; and 
in the end John stamped from the room in a rage, 
while Sir George remained behind with his hot 
temper almost at boiljng-point. 

" You are deceiving me, you disobedient, un- 
grateful dog!" he roared out. " I'll not part with 
you till I bring you face to face with Lady Ama- 
ranth, and if I find then you've been playing on 
me, I'll launch you into the wide ocean of life 
like a dismasted pirate, without rudder, compass, 
grog, or tobacco." 

Complicated as the situation had by this time 
becoine, it was destined to grow still more so. 
At Lady Amaranth's house Rover had made such 
happy use of his time that nearly all the house- 
hold was pressed into the service of the actors, 
and servants and maids were diligently conning 
their parts. Even Lady Amaranth had consented 
to study the part of Rosalind, in "As You Like 
It," while Ephraim Smooth was nearly alone in his 
horrified distaste to the pla3\ 

" Why dost thou suffer him," he said to Lady 
Amaranth, " to put into the hands of thy servants 
books of tragedies and books of comedies, pre- 
lude, interlude, yea, all lewd? My spirit doth 
wax wrotli. Verily, a play-book is the primer of 
Beelzebub." 

"Listen, while I read from one," answered 



WILD OATS. 141 

Lady Amaranth. "'Not the king's crown, nor 
the deputed sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor 
the judge's robe, become them with one-half so 
good a grace as mercy does.' Doth Beelzebub 
speak such words as these?" 

Before Ephraim could reply, the sound of a 
violin was heard without. The horrified zealot 
closed both ears with his hands, while a look of 
dismal distress overspread his long-drawn face. 

" I must shut my ears," he groaned. " The 
man of sin rubbeth the hair of the horse to the 
bowels of the cat." 

" Now, if agreeable to your ladyship, we'll go 
over your song," said Lamp, who at that moment 
entered, violin in hand. Eover came close behind 
him. 

" I will go over it !" cried Ephraim, in a rage, 
as he snatched the book from Lady Amaranth's 
hand, flung it to the floor, and trampled upon it. 

" Trample on Shakespeare !" exclaimed Eover, 
thrusting him violently back. " ' You sacrilegious 
thief, that from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 
and put it in your pocket !' " He picked up the 
book. " Go on, my lady. Silence, ' thou owl of 
Crete.' " 

Ephraim, however, was not to be silenced, and 
became so violent in his language that Eover 
ended by hustling him from the room. The 
rehearsal then proceeded peacefully. At its con- 
clusion. Lamp and his fair pupil withdrew, leaving 
Eover alone. 



142 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" An angel in drab !" he said to himself. " In 
all my roving I never saw her like. If Sir 
George don't soon arrive, to denounce me as an 
impostor, I'll be tempted to marry my lovely 
Rosalind. Shall I, though ? No, no, I can't play 
the scoundrel, — not with her. Poor Dick Buskin 
wants money more than I, yet he'd hang himself 
rather than do such a scurvy deed, and I'll do 
nothing to make him ashamed of me." 

Even as he spoke, the person he had just 
named entered the room, and started with sur- 
prise on recognizing his friend Eover. 

"Heigho! I don't know what to do," sighed 
Bover. 

"Nor what to say," said Harry, in the same 
dismal tone. 

" Dick Buskin, by the gods !" cried Rover, turn- 
ing suddenl3^ " My dear fellow ! Ha ! ha I ha ! 

talk of the devil, and I was just thinking 

of you. 'Pon my soul, Dick, I'm so happy to 
see you !" 

" But, Jack, how came you to find me out ?" 

" Find you ? It's you that has found me out. 
Has the news of my intended play brought you ?" 

" He doesn't know me, then," said Harry to 
himself " Egad ! I'll carry on the joke." 

If Rover did not know Harry's secret, Harry 
soon knew Rover's, for the latter quickly told him 
the story of his masquerade, and his belief that, 
as Harry Thunder, ho had won the heart of a 
charming lady. He went on to say that she 



WILD OATS. 143 

thought him a gentleman, and that, as he was a 
man of honor, she should never despise him as a 
rascal; declaring that he would finish with the 
play, and then bid her forever adieu in his true 
character of Jack Eover. 

" The same generous, honest fellow as ever. 
He shan't lose by it, if I can help him to win the 
woman," said Harry to himself; and, moved by a 
sudden impulse, he told Kover a story that did 
mere honor to his invention than his truthfulness. 

This story was that Eover had anticipated him, 
since he had come there for the same purpose, of 
passing himself on the lady as Harry Thunder. 
He had gone even beyond this, he said, and 
brought with him a sham father to personate the 
simon-pure Sir George, — an " old-man" comedian, 
who could play the irascible father to perfection. 

" The impudent old scoundrel !" cried Eover. 

" I'll step down-stairs and have the honor of 

I'll kick him." 

" No, no, Eover. I brought him into it, and 
won't have him hurt." 

" What's his name ?" 

" His name is — is — Abrawang." 

" Abrawang ! Never heard of the man. Ha I 
ha ! two Squire Thunders in the field, and both 
rogues !" 

" Hark ye. Jack. I'm ashamed of myself, and 
want you to punish me and my confederate. 
Suppose you keep up the character of young 
Squire Thunder. You can easily do it, and " 



144 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" But, by Heaven, I'll ' Quoit him down, 

Bardolph.' " 

" You love her, Jack ; she loves you ; her for- 
tune is a snug one. If you can marry her " 

" She's lovely, Dick ; but hang her fortune ! 
* My love, more noble than the world, prizes not 
quantity of dirty lands.' " 

Harry was in solid earnest, and took immediate 
steps to carry out the plot he had so hastily 
formed, with the ardent and generous desire to 
advance the fortunes of his friend, if even at his 
own possible loss. 

He met Lady Amaranth a few minutes after 
parting with Rover, and told her a somewhat dif- 
ferent story from that which he had invented for 
the latter. To her. Sir George must continue Sir 
George, but as for himself, he was simply Dick 
Buskin, a strolling player, and a confederate of 
the old knight in a scheme of rascality. Sir 
George, said the graceless youth, had grown so 
angry with his son for his irregular conduct that 
to punish him he had determined to treat him as 
an impostor, in the hope that she might drive him 
from her presence. He, Dick Buskin, had agreed 
to represent the real son, but his conscience had 
so smitten him that he felt obliged to acquaint 
the lady with the imposture. He had already 
told Harry of it, and advised him to punish Sir 
George by treating him himself as an impoHtor. 

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Lady Amaranth, in 
mirthful enjoyment of this fiction. " That will 



WILD OATS. 145 

be a just retaliation on my uncle for his cruel 
intentions, both to his son and me." 

They were interrupted at this juncture by Sir 
George, who entered as they were talli:ing, and 
bade his reluctant son to salute his lady cousin. 

" Here, my lady," he said, as they both held back, 
"take from a father's hand, Harry Thunder." 

" That I may not," answered Lady Amaranth, 
turning to Eover, who had just then entered. 
Taking his hand, she said, " Here, sir, take from 
my hand, Harry Thunder." 

" Eh !" exclaimed Sir George, staring at Eover, 
who stared at him in return. 

" Oh ! this is your sham Sir George ?" said 
Eover, aside to Harry. 

"Yes; I've told the lady, and she'll seem to 
humor him." 

" I shan't, though," rejoined Eover. He turned 
to Sir George, and said in a tone of satire, " How 
do you do, Abrawang?" 

"Abrawang!" exclaimed Sir George, with a 
start of surprise. 

" Ay, that's very well done. Never lose sight 
of your character. Sir George, you know, is a 
noisy, turbulent, wicked old seaman. Angry? 
bravo ! — pout your under lip, purse your brows, — 
very well done !" By this time Sir George was 
stamping about the room in a passion. " Very 
good! that's right! strut about on your little 
pegs !" and Eover clapped his hands approvingly. 

" I'm in such a fury !" cried the old man. 
Vol. II.— q k 13 



146 TALES FROM TUB DRAMATISTS. 

" We know that. I never saw a happier low- 
comedy figure. Why, only show yourself like 
that, and you'll Bct an audience in a roar." 

" 'Sblood and fire !" 

" Who is this?" asked Lady Amaranth, point- 
ing to Eover. 

" Some puppy unknown." 

" And thou dost not know this gentleman ?" she 
pointed to Sir George. 

" ' Excellent well ; he's a fish-monger.' " 

''And this youth?" pointing to Harry. 

"'My friend Iloratio! I wear thee in my 
heart's core; yea, in my heart of hearts', — as 
I do thee," and the impulsive fellow embraced 
Lady Amaranth. 

This freedom with his niece increased Sir 
George's rage almost to a frenzy. Rover con- 
tinued to twit him, till in the end the furious old 
irentleman raised his cane and used it freely, 
some of the actors who had entered, his son, and 
Eover, coming in for a share of his favors. In 
the end, he stamped in a hot rage from the room. 

Here was an indignity to which the light- 
hearted stroller had not been accustomed. His 
honor was to him his most valued possession, and 
in a moment his mood changed from merriment 
to an ardent desire for revenge. 

"A rascally old impostor stigmatize me with 
a blowl" he cried. "Zounds! I'll follow him I 
* and may the name of villain light on me' if I 
don't bang — Mr. Abrawang I" 



WILD OATS. 147 

Leaving time to clear up this complicated in- 
trigue, we must now follow the current of events 
to the locality of the farm-house and the cottage, 
where the miserly farmer had devised a new 
scheme of revenge against his poor neighbor. 
Though the debt of Mr. Banks had been paid, he 
was still behindhand in his rent, and Gammon 
took advantai^e of this fact to turn him out-of- 
doors and seize his furniture, which he placed in 
charore of a sheriff's officer. 

The distressed cottager, not knowing what 
to do, took his sister to Lady Amaranth, re- 
questing that generous lady to give her shelter 
until he could find her another home. This re- 
quest was promptly granted, and Lady Amaranth, 
in addition, promised to protect them against the 
greed of their miserly landlord. 

Sim, the farmer's son, had been ordered, much 
against his will, to make an inventory of Mr, 
Banks's goods and chattels. This he dutifully per- 
formed, but, in his goodness of heart, secretly of- 
fered the poor man his own and his sister's savings 
to pay his debt, — a generous offer which the grate- 
ful cottager could not accept. About the same 
time, in the immediate neighborhood of the cot- 
tage. Sir George Thunder was experiencing a 
series of exciting adventures. Wandering thither- 
ward to cool his rage, he had come in sight of 
three villanous-looking fellows, dressed as sailors, 
whom he believed to be the deserters of whom 
he was in search. On perceiving him, they took 



148 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

refuge in a piece of woodland. "Without thought 
of consequences, he was about to follow them, 
when he was stopped by Eover, who had traced 
him to this point. The angry actor charged him 
with having wounded his honor, and hotly de- 
manded redress. 

" The English of all this is that we're to fight," 
answered Sir George. " Well, I've only one ob- 
jection to fighting you." 

"What's that, sir?" 

" That you seem too brave a lad to be killed." 

" Sir, at present I wear the stigma of a coward." 

" Zounds ! I like a bit of fighting. I don't know 
when I've smelt gunpowder, — except to bring 
down a woodcock. I would not wish to destroy 
what was built for good service ; but, hang me, if 
I don't wing you, to teach you better manners !" 

Eover was thoroughly in earnest. He produced 
a pair of pistols, gave one to Sir George, and 
walked to a convenient distance with the other. 
In a moment more those mistaken hot-heads would 
have been firing at one another, but for an unex- 
pected interruption. As Sir George stood loading 
bis weapon, the ruffians who had taken refuge in 
the wood, and who had not seen Rover, rushed 
out and assailed the old baronet, one of them 
snatching the pistol from his hand. 

'< You are the old pirate that has chased us 
all over the country," cried the man, spitefully. 
"You wanted our lives, did you? We'll have 
yours, you bandy-legged old rascal I" 



WILD OATS. 149 

He aimed the pistol at Sir George, but before 
he could fire Eover ran up, dashed the weapon 
from his hand, and covered the villains with his 
own weapon. 

" Hold up there, rascals !" he cried. 

The villains, on seeing the tables thus turned, 
made a hasty dash for the wood, followed closely 
by Eover. Sir George seized the other pistol and 
was about to follow, when John Dory appeared 
and threw his arms around him. 

"You shan't go a step," cried the old salt. 

"Let me go! Hear that?" A pistol-shot came 
from the wood. " The brave lad saved my life. 
Let me go." 

" I'll save your life !" exclaimed John, whipping 
his diminutive master up in his arms. " I'm your 
guardian, you old sea-dog, and can't let you throw 
yourself away on such piratical craft as these." 

The old tar's untimely interference left Eover 
in serious danger. After he had ineffectively dis- 
charged his weapon, the deserters set upon him, 
and handled him so roughly that only the superior 
agility of his legs saved his head from being 
beaten into a jelly. Escaping from them with 
difficulty, his flying footsteps brought him to Mr. 
Banks's cottage, which he entered faint with ex- 
haustion. He leaned against the wall for support, 
while Amelia, the cottager's sister, who had re- 
turned thither, came to his aid, asking earnestly 
if he was hurt. 

Eover told her, in a few words, what had hap- 

13* 



150 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

pened, and begged her for a glass of her currant 
wine, of whose enlivening properties he knew 
from former experience. The good lady looked 
at him with emotion. Something in his face 
touched her heart, and the sound of his voice 
seemed to rouse long-buried recollections in her 
soul. 

Rover was yet, however, far from through with 
his adventures. Ac ne sat talking with the lady, 
the sheriff's officer who had been placed in charge 
of the house entered the room, where he behaved 
so rudely that the high-tempered young actor 
snatched up a cane and drove him from the house. 
Eover followed in a high passion, — but only to 
find himself in a new difficulty. The three ruf- 
fians had pursued him to the cottage, with cries 
of " stop thief I" On their way thither they were 
joined by a number of countrymen, to whom 
they declared that they had been robbed. As 
Eover dashed from the cottage in pui'suit of the 
insulting officer, he found himself in the midst of 
this throng, and was at once seized, bound, and 
dragged away to Lady Amaranth's, the villains 
swearing roundly that he was a highwayman, 
and must be placed in the hands of justice at 
once. 

Sir George had reached the house of the lady 
of the manor in much the same manner, being 
borne thither in the arms of John Dory, aa 
Ephraim Smooth said, " like a shrimp in the claws 
of a blue lobster." 



WILD OATS. 151 

Mr. Banks and his sister Amelia, learninsr of 
Eover's capture, quicklj'^ sought the same locality, 
and entered the room occupied by Sir George and 
John Dory while the ruffled knight was still roar- 
ing out his opinion of the old sailor. 

'• Eascal ! to whip me up like a pound of tea, 
dance me about like a j^oung bear, and make me 
desert the preserver of my life ! What will puppy 
unknown think of me ?" 

" No matter what ; out to-night you shall not 
budge," said John, resolutely. 

As he spoke he wheeled half round, and his 
eyes fell on Amelia. They half started from his 
head on perceiving her, while his legs shook like 
saplings in a gale. 

" Oh ! marcy of Heaven !" exclaimed the thun- 
derstruck old tar. "Isn't it? Oh, master! 
Look! look!" 

Amelia faced them at this exclamation, and 
seeing Sir George, gave vent to a cry of deep 
emotion, and fell half fainting into the arms of 
Lady Amaranth, who had just entered. 

" Great Heaven ! It is Amelia !" cried Sir 
George, as full of consternation as his old boat- 
swain had been. 

He seized her hand, and with strong emotion 
begged her forgiveness for the wrong he had 
done her, vowing that he had been a deep villain, 
and would marry her now as the only reparation 
in his power. Mr. Banks now stepped forward 
with dignity and told him that in this respect he 



152 TALES FBOM THE DRAMATISTS. 

was deceived, that the marriage ceremony had 
been performed by himself, and was a legal one, 
and that the lady was his true wife. 

Sir George stood dazed at this confirmation of 
what John Dory had already told him, but which 
he had not believed, and in a faint voice asked 
Amelia concerning her son, his infant heir. 

" Ah, husband, he — alas !" 

" Gone ? What a miserable scoundrel I've been I 
My true heir dead, and Harry an undutiful cub. 
By Jove, I'll adopt tbat brave lad, who wouldn't 
let anybody kill me but himself. MaiTy him, 
my Lady Amaranth. He is a fine fellow, and 
shall have my estate." 

They were interrupted in this happy reconcilia- 
tion by news that a footpad had been captured, 
and that the men he had robbed stood ready to 
give evidence against him. 

" Leave them to me," cried Sir George, bustling 
into the room Avhere they were. " Oh, ho I Clap 
down the hatches ! Secure these sharks !" he 
roared, as he cast his eyes on the ruffians. " So 
the rogues have run their heads into the lion's 
mouth 1 Release that young man. Keep these 
fellows in limbo. They are deserters from the 
King's navy." 

The villains, thus opportunely discovered, were 
carried off prisoners, while John Dory cut the 
ropes from Rover's hands, roaring out, "My 
young master ! What in Davy Jones's name have 
you been at now ?" 



WILD OATS. 153 

"My cousin Harry!" exclaimed Lady Ama- 
ranth, 

" Not quite, madam," answered Eover, as the 
true Harry entered, and gazed with surprise on 
the scene. " As I told this worthy tar, when he 
first forced me to your house, I am not the son of 
Sir George Thunder." 

" You refuse the lady !" said Harry. " Then, to 
punish you, I've half a mind to take her mj^self " 

"Stop, Dick, that won't work. Madam, don't 
listen to this fellow. He is as much of an impostor 
as myself. Isn't he, Abrawang ?" 

"Not 80, my dear Rover," answered Harry, 
with a laugh. "I have been fooling you and 
teasing my father long enough. When I joined 
your company I was a runaway school-boy, and 
my true name is Harry Thunder." 

" Must I believe all this ?" said Eover. " Who, 
then, is Abrawang ? Madam, is your uncle, Sir 
George Thunder, in this room ?" 

" He is," said Lady Amaranth, pointing to Sir 
George. 

" Then what a ridiculous part you've made me 
play between you!" cried Rover, angrily. •' This 
old shark swore I was Hai'ry Thunder; and 
forced me to deceive this noble lady. I sincerely 
beg her forgiveness. And this young runaway 
vowed he was a fraud, and his father a low 
comedian. Sir George, I beg your pardon ; and 
hope you'll apologize to me." 

" That I will, my noble splinter. Now tell me 



154 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

from what dock you were launched, my heart of 
oak." 

Eover answered that he was but a waif, born, 
he believed, in England, but left astray, from his 
earliest recollection, in the East Indies. The lady 
in whose charge he was as a child had perished 
during the troubles in that region, leaving him in 
the care of a sergeant's wife. As he grew up he 
had learned to act in the Calcutta theatre, and 
from there had come to England, assuming the 
name of Eover, and hoping to find his parents in 
his native land. 

" Can you remember the name of the town 
where " began Amelia, in deep agitation. 

" It was the town of Negapatam, madam." 

"And of the lady in whose care you were 
left ?" 

" She was the wife of a Major Linstock. But 
I have heard that my mother's name was Sey- 
mour." 

" Merciful Heaven ! it is my son !" cried the 
deeply-moved lady. " My Charles ! my long-lost 
son I" She embraced him warmly. " You have 
found your parents, my boy, for there stands 
your father," pointing to Sir George. 

" He ! can it be ? He, against whose life I 
raised my hand !" 

" My brave boy ; it does my heart good to find 
I have a son with the spirit to fight me as a 
stranger, yet defend me as a father," cried Sir 
George. 



WILD OATS. 155 

"And that I have found a brother in the man 
"who won my heart as a comrade stroller," said 
Harry, warmly pressing Rover's hand. 

"And I a lover in the warm-hearted actor," 
said Lady Amaranth, taking his other hand. 
" Sir George, you shall not disinherit Harry ; I 
have fortune enough to make your son Charles 
rich." 

" And love enough, I know, to make him the 
happiest benedict in England," cried Eover, 
gayly. "Now for the play. Call Lamp, our 
lusty manager. My ' Wild Oats' are all sown, and 
the rest of my life shall be," he continued, turn- 
ing to Lady Amaranth, " ' As You Like it.' " 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 

BY KICHAED BRINSLEY BUTLER SHERIDAN. 



[We do not feel called upon to say much about 
the author of this celebrated comedy. The story 
of the life of Eichard Brinsley Sheridan is too 
well known to demand extended comment. It 
will suffice to say that he was born at Dublin in 
1751, acquired at school the reputation of being 
an "impenetrable dunce," married Miss Linley, 
a noted songstress, in 1772, — a marriage made 
notable by an elopement and a duel, — and first 
appeared as a playwright in 1775, with the amus- 
ing comedy of " The Rivals." His greatest play, 
" The School for Scandal," appeared in 1777. He 
also wrote a musical drama, "The Duenna," 
which was highly successful, a farce called " The 
Critic," and some smaller dramatic works, besides 
translating Kotzebue's plays, " The Stranger" and 
" Pizarro." Sheridan attained no less fame as an 
orator than as a dramatist. During much of his 
life he was a member of Parliament, or otherwise 
connected with the government, while his cele- 
brated speech on the impeachment trial of "War- 
ren Hastings is still regarded as one of the most 
156 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 157 

splendid examples of oratory ever given. His 
private life was one of such extravagance that he 
was rarely free from debt, and in his later years 
he became greatly embarrassed. He died in 1816. 
Of English wits Sheridan stands almost at the 
head, and to its overflowing fund of witty dia- 
logue the " School for Scandal" owes much of 
its enduring popularity; though this is largely 
due, also, to the interest of the plot and the 
high dramatic merit of many of the situations. 
In its incessant corruscation of sparkling repartee | 
this play is only rivalled by the dramas of Con- 
greve, whose merit resides chiefly in the brilliancy 
of their dialogue. As we have given no example 
of Congreve's genius, for reasons already ex- 
plained, we repair the omission by presenting the 
stories of two of Sheridan's plays, " The School 
for Scandal" and « The Eivals," both of which 
retain their popularity to a remarkable extent, 
and continue among the most frequently acted 
examples of the older English drama.] 

Charles and Joseph Surface, the nephews of Sir 
Oliver Surface, a rich merchant of India, displayed 
that difference in character which is so often 
manifested between brothers. Joseph was dis- 
creet, cautious, and economical, and his conversa- / 
tion full of moral sentiments and professions of 1 
benevolence. Yet his morality and charity were \ 
only in words, and his secret feelings were those 
of the heartless and selfish libertine. Charles, on 

14 



158 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

the contrary, sadly lacked discretion and economy. 
His days and nights were passed in the pursuits 
of the spendthrift, in which the estate his father 
had left him, and the money his uncle had sent 
him, had been recklessly squandered. Of his once 
abundant means he had nothing left but his house 
and furniture, while he was deeply in debt. Yet 
his feelings were as warm as those of his brother 
were cold, he was lavishly generous, and was 
ready at any appeal to give in charity the money 
that should have been used to pay his debts. 

These young men had their separate love affairs, 
which may be briefly described. Charles was 
warmly in love with a beautiful young lady named 
Maria, who in her heart returned his affection, but 
repelled his suit through her dislike to his dissolute 
habits. Joseph professed to love the same young 
lady, but his affection was really placed upon her 
money, for she was the heiress to a considerable 
estate, her guardian being an old knight named 
Sir Peter Teazle, who had also acted as guardian 
to the two brothers. 

Charles had also won the affection of a Lady 
Sneerwell, though of this he was quite unaware. 
This lady was a prominent member of a group of 
busy scandal-mongers, which included also Mrs. 
Candour, Sir Benjamin Backbite, Mr. Crabtree, 
his father, Mr. Snake, and others. The principal 
aim in life of these personages seemed to be the 
retailing of scandalous stories, of which their 
nearest friends wore often the victims, none being 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 159 

SO pure in life but that they could pick holes in 
their characters, no story so innocent but that they 
could throw on it some shadow of double mean- 
ing. As for Lady Sneerwell, her leading design 
was to break off the love aifair between Charles 
and Maria, by whispering into the young ladj^'s 
ear rumors of her lover's libertine career. Her 
secret hope was that, thi-ough success in this in- 
sidious eifort, she might catch his heart in the 
rebound. 

Sir Peter Teazle, of whom we have above 
spoken, has so much to do with our story that 
we must say more concerning him. He was a 
wealthy gentleman of advanced years, who had re- 
cently mai'ried a beautiful young wife, a girl of coun- 
try birth and education, but whose head had been 
turned by the glamour of London life. Brought 
up in comparative poverty, her extravagance as 
a fashionable lady kept her in constant hot water 
with her husband, their life being a series of 
quarrels and reconciliations. In addition to her 
extravagance. Lady Teazle became an active 
member of the school for scandal, in which Lady 
Sneerwell and Mrs. Candour were the leading ; 
pi'ofessors, and soon grew to be as apt as any of 
them in their peculiar art. In her heedless gayety 
she even exposed herself to the slanderous tongues 
of her associates, for Joseph Surface had made an 
insidious assault upon her virtue, and she was too 
thoughtless to perceive into what unpleasant com- 
plications her penchant for him might lead her. 



160 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

At heart, however, Lady Teazle had the sturdy- 
virtue of her country training, and was not likely 
to be led astray by the wiles of her libertine 
lover. 

At the time our story opens. Sir Oliver Surface, 
the uncle of the two young men, had just arrived 
in London, though this was not known to his 
nephews. It was a secret known only to Eowley, 
an old servant of the family, and to Sir Peter 
Teazle, to whom Eowley revealed it. In fact, Sir 
Oliver had come to London for a special purpose. 
He had already liberally supplied his nephews 
with money, and was ready to help them further, 
for they were his only near relations, but before 
doing so he wished to gain a personal knowledge of 
their characters, and discover which of the two was 
most worthy to be made his heir. As for Sir Peter, 
he was likely to prove a biassed advocate, for he 
believed firmly in Joseph, whose moral sentiments 
seemed to him the true coin of sterling honesty ; 
while the extravagance of the other nephew had 
made an enemy of tbe old knight. Rowley, on 
the other hand, had a deeper insight into the true 
characters of the two young men, and earnestly 
upheld the merit of Charles. But Sir Oliver 
was not the man to take anything at second-hand ; 
he resolved to test his nephews ibr himself, with 
Rowley's aid, and decide which was best suited to 
be the recipient of his bounty. 

Sir Oliver had reached London at a fortunate 
time for Charles Surface, if he was to be saved 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 161 

from utter ruin. He had sold everything in his 
house to raise money, except the family pictures, 
and was so deeply in debt to Jews and tradesmen ( 
that, as Sir Benjamin Backbite told the members 
of the scandalous college, " when he entertained 
his friends he would sit down to dinner with a 
dozen of his own securities, have a score of trades- 
men waiting in the antechamber, and an officer \ 
behind every guest's chair." 

Our first acquaintance with the characters 
whom we have introduced to the reader must be 
made in the house of Sir Peter Teazle, who, on 
our entrance, has just completed his daily quarrel i 
with his wife. He had attempted to take her to 
task for her extravagance and her association 
with the scandal-mongers, but had failed, as 
usual, to bring her to a sense of wrong-doing. 

" So, I have gained much by my intended ex- 
postulation," he said to himself, after she had left 
the room. " Yet with what a charming air she 
contradicts everything I say, and how pleasantly 
she shows her contempt for my authority ! Well, 
though I can't make her love me, there is great 
satisfaction in quarrelling with her ; and I think 
she never appears to such advantage as when 
she is doing everything in her power to plague 
me." 

Lady Teazle showed her appreciation of her 

husband's good advice by going directly to Lady 

Sneerwell's house, where she found the whole 

tribe of slanderers assembled, and busily engaged 

Vol. 11— I 14* 



162 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

in dissecting the characters of their friends. 
Maria, who was present, attempted some gentle 
expostuhition, but her words were wasted, the 
tide of scandal continuing to flow until it was 
quite exhausted. 

After these earnest laborers in a bad cause had 
left the room, Joseph Surface and Maria remained, 
an opportunity of which he at once took advan- 
tage to press his suit with the young lady. Un- 
luckily for his plans, Lady Teazle returned while 
he was on his knees before her, and found him in 
that embarrassing position. 

Here was a serious dilemma for the double- 
dealing Joseph ! How should he remove Lady 
Teazle's suspicions and retain her favor? He 
managed to get Maria from the room, and then 
sought, by the first lie that came into his head, to 
explain his tender attitude. His effort w^as not so 
successful as he had hoped. Lady Teazle affected 
to close her eyes, but was by no means blinded, 
and after her departure her plotting lover ex- 
claimed, — 

"A curious dilemma, truly, my politics have 
run me into ! I begin to wish I had never made 
such a point of gaining so very good a character, 
for it has led me into so many cursed rogueries 
that I doubt I shall be exposed at last." 

Meanwhile Rowley had brought Sir Oliver to 
the house of Sir Peter Teazle, for an interview 
concerning his graceless nephews, having first 
warned him that he would find his old friend 



THE SCUOOL FOR SCANDAL. 163 

greatly prejudiced against his nephew Charles. 
But he assured him that this was largely due to 
jealousy, and that Lady Sneerwell, for her own 
purposes, had done her best to set afloat a story 
of illicit relations between Charles Surface and 
Lady Teazle. In this choice bit of scandal 
she had been fully aided by her associates,— 
though Rowley's opinion was that if the lady 
eared for either of the brothers it was for Joseph. 

" I am not to be prejudiced against my nephew 
by such a set of malicious, prating gossips, who 
murder characters to kill time," declared Sir 
Oliver. "No, no; if Charles has done nothing 
false or mean, I shall compound for his extrava- 
gance." 

Sir Peter's opinion fully justified Eowley's 
warning. He assured Sir Oliver that Charles 
was a lost young man, and that Joseph was a 
model of prudence and morality. 

" You will be convinced of this when you meet 
this discreet young man," declared Sir Peter. " It 
is edification to hear him converse ; he professes 
the noblest sentiments." 

" Oh, plague of his sentiments !" exclaimed Sir 
Oliver. " If he salutes me with a scrap of morality 
in his mouth I shall be sick directly. I don't 
mean to defend Charles's errors, Sir Peter; but 
before I form my judgment of either of them I 
intend to make a trial of their hearts. My friend 
Rowley and I have planned something for that 
purpose." 



164 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

This plan, which he proceeded to unfold to Sir 
Peter, was the following : A Dublin merchant, 
named Stanley, who was nearly related to the 
mother of the two j'oung men, had been unfortu- 
nate in business and was imprisoned for debt. lie 
had written to the brothers for assistance, but 
had received nothing in return, though Charles 
was trying to raise a sum of money for his relief. 
Ilowley's plan was to inform the two brothers 
that Mr. Stanley had gained permission to apply 
in person to his friends. This done, Sir Oliver 
would call upon them in the character of Stanley, 
and by an appeal to their benevolence seek to 
gain some insight into their dispositions. 

Further consideration, however, induced Sir 
Oliver to change this plan, so far as Charles was 
concerned, and call upon him under another char- 
acter. A money-lending Jew, named Moses, who 
was well acquainted with the affairs of the young 
profligate, had been requested to call at Sir Peter's 
house, and give the uncle some exact information 
a^ to the true state of his nephew's financial 
situation. 

The story Moses told was to the effect that 
Charles's fortune was just then some thousands 
of pounds on the wrong side of nothing. But 
this, he said, was not known to all the money- 
lenders of the city, and he had engaged to bring 
that very evening a gentleman named Premium, 
who would advance the young man some money. 
On hearing this, Sir Peter at once suggested that 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 165 

it would be an excellent plan for Sir Oliver to 
represent Mr. Premium, since he might thus see 
his nephew in all his glory. 

"Egad, I like this plan better than the other?" 
declared Sir Oliver. "And I may visit Joseph 
afterwards as old Stanley." 

" This is taking Charles rather at a disadvan- 
tage," protested Eowley. "But be it so; I have 
no fear for him." 

Moses hereupon instructed Sir Oliver how he 
must play his part as a money-lender. The prin- 
cipal necessity was that he should be exorbitant 
enough in his demands. If his client ajjpeared 
not very anxious, he might lend him money at 
forty or fifty per cent., but if he appeared in 
great distress he might ask double. Then, he 
must not have the moneys himself, but must have 
to borrow them from a friend. This friend must 
be an unconscionable dog, who had not the 
moneys by him, but was forced to sell stock at a 
great loss to obtain them. These and other in- 
structions fairly prepared Sir Oliver for the part 
he was to play, and he left the house with Moses, 
quite ready to carr}^ out this well-devised plot. 

Hardly had they gone when Maria entered. 
Her guai'dian, who was well aware of her rela- 
tions to the two brothers, took advantage of the 
opportunity to contrast to her their characters, 
and strongly advised her to give up all thoughts 
of the dissolute Charles, and yield to the addresses 
of the moral and amiable Joseph. His advice 



106 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

was wasted. Maria was not to be moved. In 
the end he lost his temper at her obstinacy, and 
sternly ordered her from the room, sourly declar- 
ing to himself that her father had died only to 
plague him with the care of his perverse daughter. 

Sir Peter was not yet through with his morn- 
ing's frets. His interview with Maria was fol- 
lowed by one with his wife, which ended no 
more happil3^ Lady Teazle, indeed, made her 
appearance in an excellent humor, and they 
began in the most lover-like mood, resolving to 
quarrel no more, and to live thereafter like tui'tle- 
doves. 

" But, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch 
your temper very seriously," warned Sir Peter, 
" for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you 
recollect, my love, you alwaj's began tirst." 

" I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter: indeed, 
you always gave the provocation." 

" Now, see, mj- angel, take care, — contradicting 
isn't the way to keep friends." 

" Then don't you begin it, my love." 

" There, now, you — you are going on. You 
don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing 
the very thing which you know always makes me 
angry." 

" Nay, you know if you will be angry without 
any reason, my dear " 

" There, now ! who begins first ?" 

" Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing, — but 
there is no bearing your temper." 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 167 

" No, no, madam ; the fault's in your own 
temper." 

And on it went until the pair, who had heen 
ardent lovers ten minutes before, were in such a 
furious quarrel that Sir Peter vowed that nothing 
would content him but a divorce. 

" Agreed, agreed," cried Lady Teazle, merrily. 
"And now, m}^ dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind 
once more, and may be the happiest couple and 
never diflfer again, you know ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and 
I shall only interrupt you, — so, by ! by !" 

" Plagues and tortures ! can't I make her angry 
either ?" he cried, as she ran laughing from the 
room. " I'll not bear her presuming to keep her 
temper ! No, she may break my heart, but she 
shan't keep her temper !" and he stamped angrily 
out after her. 

Meanwhile Sir Oliver was on his way, under 
the guidance of Moses, to the residence of Charles 
Surface. 

That gentleman was not occupied as a ruined 
person might be supposed to be. On the contrary, 
he was in the highest of spirits, enjoying himself 
with a group of his boon companions, drinking 
and singing, and seemingly miles away from the 
shadow of disaster. 

Yet this shadow was not far removed. "When the 
young spendthrift was called from the room by 
the visit of the Jew and the assumed money- 
broker, and asked what security he had to offer 



168 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

for the money he wished to borrow, he could 
think of notliing but his expectations from the 
estate of his rich uncle. 

" They tell me I urn a prodigious favorite, and 
that he talka of leaving me everything," he 
declared. 

" Indeed I that is the first I've heard of it," 
answered Sir Oliver. 

" It's so, indeed. At the same time he has 
been so liberal to me that I should be very 
sorry to hear that anything had happened to him." 

"No more than I should," exclaimed Sir Oliver. 
'' I assure j'ou of that. But I am told that he is 
very hale and hearty." 

" Not at all," declared Charles. " He breaks 
apace, I am told, — and is so much altered lately 
that his nearest relations would not know him." 

This remark threw Sir Oliver into such a fit of 
laughter that Charles looked at him in surprise. 
He could not imagine what Mr. Premium, as he 
supposed him to be, could see so amusing in his 
words. At the end, however. Sir Oliver, in his 
character of broker, asked him if there was no 
other security he could offer? What had become 
of the rich old plate his father had left, and the 
valuable library? Charles answered lightlj- that 
the plate had gone to the Jews and the books to 
the auctioneer long ago, and that nothing remained 
of the family propertj'- but a room full of ancestors. 
These he would sell him at a bargain, if he had a 
taste for old pictures. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 169 

" What ! you wouldn't sell your forefathers, 
would you ?" exclaimed Sir Oliver. 

" Every man of them, to the best bidder." 

" What! your great-uncles and aunts?" 

" Yes, and my great-grandfathers and grand- 
mothers, too." 

A groan came from Sir Oliver at this. " The 
heartless profligate!" he said to himself "I'll 
never forgive him this ! never!" 

Charles, however, insisted on the sale, enlisting 
Careless, one of his boon companions, to act as 
auctioneer, and the party adjourned to the picture 
gallery with the purpose of disposing of the 
family portraits. 

" When a man wants money, where the plague 
should he get assistance if he can't make free 
with his own relations ?" asked Charles, gayly. 
" But, Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem 
to like the business." 

"Oh, 3'es, 1 do, vastly. Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, 
I think it a rare joke to sell one's family by 
auction — ha ! ha !" Then in an uTTdertone ho 
groaned out, " Oh, the prodigal ! I'll never for- 
give him ; never !" 

Entering the gallery, whose walls were adorned 
with a goodly show of portraits, many of them 
of value as paintings. Careless mounted a gouty 
old chair as auctioneer's stand, rolled up a gen- 
ealogical tree of the family as auctioneer's ham- 
mer, and proceeded to knock off the portraits as 

H 15 



170 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Charles called them out and Sir Oliver made hia 
bids. 

The sale proceeded till a goodly number of the 
pictures had been disposed of at fair prices. By 
this time, however, Charles had grown tired of 
the sport, and he proposed to sell all the remain- 
der of the family in the lump, for three hundred 
pounds. 

" Well, well, anything to accommodate you," 
said Sir Oliver ; " they are mine. But there is one 
portrait which you have always passed over." 

" What, that ill-looking little fellow over the 
settee ?" asked Careless. 

" Yes, sir, I mean that ; though I don't think 
him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any means." 

"What, that?" said Charles. " Oh, that's my 
iincle Oliver. It was done before he went to 
India." 

" Ah ! and I suppose uncle Oliver goes with the 
rest of the lumber." 

"No, hang it! I'll not part with poor Noll. 
The old fellow has been very good to me, and, 
egad, I'll keep his picture while I've a room to 
put it in." 

" The rogue's my nephew after all !" said Sir 

Oliver to himself. " I must forgive him But 

I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture," 
he declared aloud. 

"I'm sorry for that, for you can't have it. 
Haven't you got enough of them ?" 

"But, sir, I don't value money when I take a 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 171 

■whim. I'll give you as much for that as for all 
the rest." 

" Don't tease me, master broker," cried Charles. 
" I tell you I'll not part with it, and there's an end 
of it." 

Importunity' proved unavailing, and the coun- 
terfeit broker took his leave, after giving his 
cheek for the purchase-money. At heart he was 
delighted to find that his profligate nephew 
thought 80 highly of him as to refuse ten times 
its value for his picture. 

" The dear extravagant rogue !" he said to him- 
self. " Let me hear now who dares call him prof- 
ligate !" 

As for Charles, he quickly performed an act 
that was likely to bring him still more into his 
uncle's favor. For, meeting Eowley, he insisted 
on giving him a hundred pounds of the money 
he had just received, to be sent to Mr. Stanley. 
Eowley objected to this, advising him to be just 
before he was generous, but the impulsive young 
man would listen to no remonstrance, and fairly 
forced him to accept the money. This act of 
charity Eowley soon told to Sir Oliver, who was 
so greatly pleased on hearing it that he vowed 
he would pay the young rogue's debts and his 
charities as well. 

It remained for the uncle to call on his other 
nephew, in his assumed character of Mr. Stanley. 
But before he could do this, the standing of Jo- 
seph as a moralist was greatly injured by certain 



172 TALES FRO:\I THE DRAMATISTS. 

unlucky circumstances, prepared for him, as it 
seemed, by the adverse fates. These circum- 
stances we have next to describe. 

Lady Teazle, in her desire to conform to all the 
follies of fashion, was in the habit of visiting 
Joseph Surface clandestinely, and on the day in 
question had agreed to call upon him. A knock 
coming upon the door of the library, in which 
room be awaited her, he bade the servant to draw 
a screcu before the window as a guard against the 
possible curiosity of his neighbor, and then told 
him to admit the visitor. 

It proved to be Lady Teazle, as he had sus- 
pected. She had left her chair at the milliner's 
in the next street, and come on foot to his house, 
more thi*ough foolish perversity than from any 
wrong intention. But Joseph's purpose was much 
less innocent than hers. He wished to get her 
into his power, that he might use her in the 
furtherance of his other schemes. Unluckily for 
him, a most awkward circumstance came to pass. 
' In the midst of his moral arguments to prove 
that wrong is right, the servant hastily entered 
and announced that Sir Peter was on the stairs 
and coming to the room. 

This news created an instant consternation. It 
was too late for Lady Teazle to escape by the door, 
and no place of shelter appeared but behind the 
screen. Here she hastily hid herself, in the hope 
that the unwelcome visitor would soon depart, 
and vowing never to be caught in such a scrapo 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 173 

again. As for Joseph, he seized a book, and when 
Sir Peter entered appeai*ed to be so absorbed in 
reading that the visitor had to tap him on the 
shoulder to bring him to himself. 

This evident desire for knowledge on the part I 
of his moral protege so pleased the old gentleman 
that he highly commended his studious habits. 
He concluded by telling him that the purpose 
of his visit was to confide to him an important 
family secret. 

Joseph just then would have given no small 
sum of money to have bad Lady Teazle out of 
the way, for he feared the character of Sir Peter's 
communication. But there was no help for it. 
The lady was there, and her husband could not 
be hushed. The fox was fairly caught in his own 
trap, and was obliged to sit and listen to a reve- 
lation that threatened to be ruinous to his base 
purposes. 

Sir Peter began by saying that Lady Teazle's 
conduct of late had made him very unhappy. He 
suspected her of having formed an attachment to 
another, and that other no less than the libertine 
Charles Surface. This statement Joseph heard 
with an assurance of the deepest regret. He 
could scarcely credit, he declared, that his brother 
could be capable of such baseness. And it was 
not possible for him, he concluded, to suspect 
Lady Teazle's honor. 

Sir Peter thanked him for his noble sentiments, 
and proceeded to say that he wished to think 

15* 



174 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

well of his wife, and intended to remove one of 
the chief causes of their frequent disputes. They 
differed in their ideas of expense, but he had re- 
solved to provide her with an income of her own. 
It was his purpose to settle on her eight hundred 
pounds a year during his life. More than this, 
he had drawn up another paper which would 
settle the bulk of his fortune on her at his death, 
— but this fact he desired Joseph to keep a strict 
secret. 

Unfortunately for Joseph's purposes the secret 
was already out. Lady Teazle had heard every 
word of her husband's generous intentions. Sir 
Peter now proceeded to talk on as awkward a 
theme, for he strongly advocated a matrimonial 
alliance between Joseph and his ward Maria. This 
untimely outflow of confidences was at length 
interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who 
announced that Charles Surface was below. 

" A thought has struck me," exclaimed Sir Peter. 
"Before Charles enters, conceal me somewhere, 
and then do you tax him on the point we were 
talking of. His answer may satisfy me at once. 
Here, this screen will do." Before Joseph could 
stop him he had advanced to the screen and 
caught a glimpse behind it. " Hey ! what the 
devil!" he cried. "There seems to be one listener 
here already I'll swear I saw a petticoat! " 

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Joseph, as he drew him 
back. " Hark'eo, Sir Peter, it is only a little 
French milliner, a silly rogue that plagues me. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 175 

\ 

She has some character to lose, and on your 
coming she ran behind the screen." 

" Ah, Joseph ! Joseph ! did I ever think that 
you But here's a closet that will do as well." 

" Yes ; go in there." 

An amusing but very awkward scene followed. 
Now Lady Teazle peeped from behind the screen, 
and suggested that she might escape; and now 
Sir Peter thrust his head from the closet, and 
hoped that the little milliner would not blab. 
Joseph had his hands full to keep them from 
seeing each other, and was glad when Charles 
entered and relieved him of this difficulty. 

It was not long, however, before the moral 
rogue found himself in a still deeper difficulty. 
For when, in accordance with his compact with 
Sir Peter, he taxed Charles with seeking to gain 
the affections of Lady Teazle, his brother an- 
swered that he bad never dreamed of such a 
thing, and that he was surprised to hear this from 
him, whom he had always understood to be Lady 
Teazle's favorite. 

Joseph sought to silence him, but Charles de- ' 
clared that he had seen them exchange significant 

glances, had found them together, and had 

Here Joseph, in despair of silencing his indiscreet 
brother in any other manner, was obliged to 
whisper to him that Sir Peter was in the closet 
and would hear all he said. 

"In there!" cried Charles, gayly. "I'll have 
him out, then. Sir Peter, come forth." He threw 



176 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

open the closet door and dragged out the confused 
old sp5'. " What, my old guardian, turn inquisitor 
and take evidence incog? Oh, fie!" 

" Give me your hand, Charles. I believe I have 
suspected you wrongfully. What I have heard 
has given me great satisfaction." 

" Egad, then, it was lucky you didn't hear any 
more. AYasn't it, Joseph ?" 

" Ah ! you would have retorted on him." 

" Ay, a}", that was a joke." 

"Yes, yes, I know his honor too well." 

Joseph's troubles seemed fated to accumulate, 
for at this critical juncture the servant entered, 
and whispered to him that Lady Sneerwell was 
below and insisted on seeing him. She would not 
take no for an answer. He tried to get his visitors 
from the room, but they were bent on waiting there 
for his return, and he was obliged to leave them 
alone while he dismissed his lady caller on the 
plea of urgent business. Before leaving the room, 
however, he whispered to Sir Peter : " Not a word 
of the French milliner." " Not for the world," 
answered Sir Peter, and Joseph left the room with 
his uneasiness somewhat reduced. 

He had not calculated sufficiently on the chap- 
ter of accidents. Hardly had he gone before Sir 
Peter began to praise his noble sentiments, and to 
express his belief that it would be greatly to the 
moral benefit of his dissolute brother if he would 
make him more of a companion. Charles an- 
swered that Joseph was too moral by half, and 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 177 

would, he supposed, as soon let a priest into his 
house as a woman. 

" He is not such a saint either, in that respect," 
declared Sir Peter. " I have a great mind to tell 
him," he said to himself. 

" Oh, hang him ! he's a very anchorite ! ayoung 
hermit." 

"No, no," cried Sir Peter, with a laugh. " Egad, 
I'll tell him ! Have you a mind to have a good 
laugh at Joseph ?" 

" I should like it of all things." 

"Then, i' faith, I'll be even with him for 
discovering me ! He had a girl with him 
when I called." Sir Peter's voice sank into a 
whisper. 

« What ! Joseph ? You jest.' ' 

" Hush ! a little French milliner. And the best 
of the jest is, she's in the room now." 

" The devil she is !" 

" Hush ! I tell you," and Sir Peter pointed slily 
at the screen. 

" Behind the screen ? Let's unveil her !" 

"No, no; he's coming; you sha'n't, indeed!" 

" Yes, yes, we must have a peep at the littlo 
milliner." 

" Not for the world ! Joseph will never for- 
give me." 

" I'll stand by you " 

Charles was not to be restrained in his mis- 
chievous humor, and just as Joseph opened the 
door to enter he threw down the screen, revealing 
Vol. II. — tn 



178 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS, 

the lady behind it. The situation was truly a 
startlins^ one. 

" Lady Teazle, by all that's wonderful !" cried 
Chdrles. 

" Lady Teazle, by all that's damnable !" groaned 
Sir Peter. 

As for Joseph, he stood in dumb silence, dis- 
mayed beyond the power of speech. 

" Sir Peter, this is one of the smartest French 
milliners I ever saw," declared Charles. " Egad, 
you all seem to have been diverting yourselves 
at hide and seek. Your ladyship — Sir Peter — 
morality — who will explain this secret? What! 
all mute? Then I'll leave you to yourselves. 
Brother, I'm sorry to find you have given that 
worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness. Sir 
Peter, there's nothing in the world so noble as a 
man of sentiment," and with a gay laugh Charles 
left the room. 

What followed may be briefly told. Eelieved of 
his brother's presence, Joseph sought to clear 
himself by a lying explanation of Lady Teazle's 
presence. But unluckily for him that lady's senti- 
ments and opinions had greatly changed since she 
hud been behind the screen, and she was by no 
means disposed to second him. She declared that 
all he had said was false, and that he had brought 
her there for the purpose of seducing her. She 
further said that the tender feeling for her which 
her husband had expi*essed had so moved her 
heart that she would devote her future life to 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 179 

gratitude and affection. With these words she 
left the room. 

"Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter," began 
the discovered rogue, " heaven knows " 

" That you are a villain ; and so I leave you to 
your conscience." 

" You are too rash, Sir Peter ; you shall hear 
me. The man who shuts out conviction by re- 
fusing to " 



" Oh ! damn your sentiments !" cried Sir Peter, 
leaving the room in a rage. He had had enough i 
of sentiment for the remainder of his life. 

Joseph Surface's career of wordy morality and 
secret villany. Indeed, was near its end, for events 
were ripening to expose him fully in his true 
character. It was not long after the scene we 
have described that Sir Oliver called upon him in 
his assumed character of Stanley, and begged for 
some aid in his distress. He found his nephew 
profuse in polite words, and full of seeming sor- 
row that his poverty would not let him aid the 
poor gentleman. Stanley professed surprise at 
this, saying that it was the common report that 
Sir Oliver had enriched his nephew; but Joseph 
declared that this was a mistake, and that the 
worthy but avaincious Indian merchant had only 
sent him a few trifling presents. Besides, he had 
lent such sums to his extravagant brother as 
quite to impoverish himself. In the end he 
politely bowed the visitor from the door, with 
obsequious expressions of esteem and good 



180 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

wishes, though he only succeeded in convincing Sir 
Oliver that he was a specious and selfish hypocrite. 

Hardly had the pretended bankrupt left the 
house when word came to Joseph that his uncle, 
Sir Oliver, had arrived in London, and would soon 
call on him. In consternation, he sent in haste to 
recall Mr. Stanley, but it was too late. He had 
done himself irreparable mischief in that quarter. 
Should Mr. Stanley repeat to Sir Oliver what he 
had said, all his hopes of wealth from his rich 
uncle were at an end. And his plan to marry Sir 
Peter's wealthy ward Maria seemed equally hope- 
less after the late exposure. In fact, Charles 
Surface had made no secret of the amusing scene 
in his brother's librar}^, and it was already in the 
hands of the scandal-mongers, who had magnified 
it into a serious duel, in which Sir Peter had been 
dangerously wounded. 

The end was now near at hand. For while 
Joseph Surface was waiting in nervous anxiety 
for the promised visit of his uncle, a gentleman 
called whom he recognized as Mr. Stanley. He 
had desired to recall this person not long before, 
but now, when Sir Oliver was momentarily ex- 
pected, his visit was most ill-timed, and the luck- 
less schemer forgot bis usual show of politeness 
in his haste to get rid of his unwelcome visitor. 

As he was rudely pushing him out of the room, 
Charles Surface entered, and demanded to know 
what he was doing with his broker, little Premium. 
A scene of misunderstanding ensued, one brother 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 181 

insisting that the visitor was Mr. Stanley, who 
had come to borrow, and the other that it was 
Mr. Premium, who had come to lend. But both 
were satisfied that it would never do to have him 
seen by Sii' Oliver, and Charles joined with Joseph 
in endeavoring to force him from the room, while 
he strenuously resisted. 

In the midst of this scene the door was thrown 
open, and Sir Peter and Lady Teazle — who had 
become reconciled — entered, followed by Maria 
and Eowley. They looked in surprise on the 
scene before them. 

"What, my old friend, Sir Oliver!" exclaimed 
Sir Peter. "Here are dutiful nephews, truly! 
assaulting their uncle at his first visit !" 

"Indeed, Sir Oliver, it was well we came in to 
rescue you," said Lady Teazle. 

" Truly it was," said Eowley, " for I perceive, 
Sir Oliver, the character of old Stanley was no 
protection to you." 

" Nor of Premium, either," answered Sir Oliver. 
"The necessities of the former could not extort 
a shilling from that benevolent gentleman ; and 
with the other I stood a chance of faring worse 
than my ancestors, and being knocked down with- 
out being bid for." 

That the two brothers were in a state of the 
utmost consternation need not be said. The dis- 
covery had come upon them like a thunderbolt, 
and all hopes of inheriting a penny of their rich 
uncle's fortune seemed blown to the winds. 

IG 



182 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

That this was the case in regard to Joseph 
•was soon evident, for Sir Oliver lost no time in 
expressing his opinion of his meanness, to which 
Sir Peter and Lady Teazle added as strong 
sentiments conceniing his treachery and hypoc- 
risy. 

" If they talk this way to Honesty, what will 
they say to me, by and by?" groaned Charles. 

" Well, sir, in what way are you prepared to 
justify your prodigal behavior?" asked Sir Oliver, 
turning to him, after ending his remarks to his 
brother. 

" In no way that I know of," answered Charles. 

" What ! Little Premium has been let too 
much into the secret ?" 

" Come, Sir Oliver," said Rowley. " I know you 
cannot speak of Charles's follies with anger." 

" Nor with gravity either," answered Sir Oliver, 
with a laugh. "Do you know, Sir Peter, the 
rogue bargained with me for all his ancestors ; 
sold me judges and generals by the foot, and 
maiden aunts as cheap as broken china." 

" Why I did make a little free with the family 
canvas, Sir Oliver," acknowledged Charles. "Yet 
believe me sincere in saying that nothing could 
give me warmer satisfaction than to see you here 
before me, whatever opinion you may have formed 
of my follies." 

" I believe you, Charles. Give me your hand ; 
the ill-looking little fellow over the settee has 
made your peace." 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, 183 

" Then, sir, my gratitude to the original is still 
increased," answered Charles, gratefully. 

But one more matter remained to be cleared 
up, the prodigal's relations to Maria. Though 
they loved each other truly, the young lady's ears 
had been so poisoned by calumnies concerning 
her lover, the invention of Joseph Surface, Lady 
Sneerwell, and Snake, that she declared she could 
have nothing to do with one who had played the 
traitor to another woman. 

But, unluckily for the plot of the pair of con- 
spirators, Eowley had got hold of Snake, and 
induced him to tell the truth. His evidence 
convicted the two arch rogues of villany, and 
overcame the objections of Maria, who now saw 
that the charges against her lover wei'e all false, 
and gladly promised him her hand, on his sincei'e 
promise to reform. 

And so ends the story of the two brothers, the 
hypocrite and the profligate. The former was 
cast off by his rich uncle, who advised him to 
marry his confederate. Lady Sneerwell. The 
latter was fully forgiven, his faults being those of / 
youth and folly, not of meanness and treachery.' 
He made no promise to reform, saying that he 
could not trust himself, but sincerly hoped that 
Maria would lead him into a better path. As for 
Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, their quarrels were at 
an end. She repented so bitterly her folly that , 
she resolved thenqeforth to return his love, and 
become a model of discretion. 



THE RIVALS. 

BY KICHAKD BEINSLEY BUTLEK SHERIDAN". 



At the city of Bath, the famous English water- 
ing-place of the last century, had come together a 
number of persons of very peculiar character and 
habits. Two of the oddest among these were a 
young lady named Lydia Languish and her aunt 
Mrs. Malaprop. Miss Languish was notable for 
her highly romantic ideas. The books she read 
bore such titles as "The Delicate Distress," "The 
Tears of Sensibility," " The Sentimental Journey," 
and the like; a class of reading which could not 
but fill her with false ideas of life. Her wealth 
brought her many lovers, but of them all there 
was only one whom she thought worth a moment's 
consideration, and this from the fact that with him 
her course of true love ran far from smoothly. This 
favored lover was a young man named Beverley, 
an ensign in the British ai'my, whose courtship 
Mrs. Malaprop so disapproved that she confined 
her niece to prevent her seeing him. But this 
was just the method to add fuel to Miss Lydia's 
fancy, since to her love's ideal lay in stolen inter- 
views, an elopement, a clandestine marriage, and 
184 



IT') 



J I 

-larj, and 
found ' a dripping 

statue 
and 811 



Bad l,u^. J ,„....,;._.: 

Ba<i!y damped. ■'^ 

deceivinef her. Instead of being an h n- 

mv, ft son of 



rou.^.:.... ,, , 

any sensible courtship, he had assumed the name 
of Beverley, and wooed her under the guise of 
nn , the lowest grade i • Jk. Miss 

L: was heiress to a fovf i ui luirty thou- 

sa ds, the greater part of \TVi-li she would 

!o^ .e married before «li with- 

i)ut Iter jiuntV (':-'..;i-.; 

V bno deciareu :: 





Rir.ifiRn I'.Kixsi /■Y lurii-.K siii:riiX 



^ 



THE RIVALS. 185 

all the other folly she had learned from sentimental 
novels. 

" The dear delicious shifts I have been put to," 
she said to her confidante, " to gain half a minute's 
conversation with Beverley ! How often have I 
stolen forth, in the coldest night in January, and 
found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping 
statue ! There would he kneel to me in the snow, 
and sneeze and cough so pathetically ; he shivei*- 
ing with cold and I with apprehension; and 
while the cold blast numbed our joints, how 
warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and 
glow with mutual ardor! Ah, that was some- 
thing like being in love." 

Had the romantic Lydia known the truth, her 
affection for her dear Beverley would have been 
sadly damped. The fact was that her lover was 
deceiving her. Instead of being an humble en- 
sign, he was really a captain in the army, a son of 
Sir Anthony Absolute, and therefore a perfectly 
suitable connection. But knowing Miss Lydia's 
romantic fancy, and that she would not listen to 
any sensible courtship, he had assumed the name 
of Beverley, and wooed her under the guise of 
an ensign, the lowest grade in army rank. Miss 
Languish was heiress to a fortune of thirty thou- 
sand pounds, the greater part of which she would 
lose if she married before she came of age with- 
out her aunt's consent. But to commit this wild 
folly seemed to her the very flower of love's 
romance, and she declared that she could never 

16* 



186 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

love the man who would iisk for a day's delay 
from base desire for her raonej". 

At the time our story opens Lydia was in deep 
trouble. She had never experienced the delight- 
ful sensation of a quarrel with htfr lover, nor 
would he give her the opportunity for one. This 
was to her so out of the ordinary course of true 
love, and so against all precedent in novels, that 
she determined to invent a quarrel, since her lover 
was so deliriousl^y good-natured as not to yield 
her a real one. With this laudable purpose, she 
wrote a letter to herself, signing it " Your Friend 
Unknown," in which she informed herself that 
Beverley was paying his addresses to another 
woman. This she showed to Beverley, and, pre- 
tending to be in a violent passion, chai-ged him 
with falsehood, and vowed she would never see 
him again. Unfortunately for the success of this 
little romance, her aunt just then discovered her 
clandestine interviews and brought her to Bath, 
where she confined her so closely to the house that 
no opportunity was given for a reconciliation with 
Beverley, and the poor silly maiden was in the 
depths of despair, fearing that she had lost her 
lover forever. 

The aunt, Mrs. Malaprop, was as singular a char- 
acter as the niece. She had a ridiculous habit of 
using long words, which meant something very 
different from what she intended, and gave a very 
ludicrous turn to her conversation. As an example, 
we may quote her views on female education. 



THE RIVALS. 187 

" I would by no means "wish a daughter of mine 
to be a progeny of learning," she said. " For in- 
stance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, 
or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or 
paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of 
learning. But I would send her, at nine years 
old, to a boarding-school, to learn a little ingenuity 
and artifice. Then she should have a supercilious 
knowledge in accounts ; and as she grew up I 
would have her instructed in geometry, that she 
might know something of the contagious countries ; 
but, above all, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, 
that she might not misspell and mispronounce 
words so shamefully as girls usually do, and 
might reprehend the true meaning of what she 
is saying. This is what I would have a woman 
know; and I don't think there is a superstitious 
article in it." 

Mrs. Malaprop, in her turn, was in love, the 
object of her ancient fancy being a fire-eating 
Irish baronet named Sir Lucius O'Trigger, whom 
she had met at a ball, and with whom she kept 
up a secret correspondence under the assumed 
name of Delia. Sir Lucius, under the belief that 
these romantic letters came from Miss Lydia Lan- 
guish, with whom he fancied himself in love, was 
happy to reply in the same vein, and the air bore 
many a weight of love between these sentimental 
correspondents. The go-between of all these 
lovers was Lydia's maid, a shrewd minx, named 
Lucy, who pretended to be very simple, but was 



188 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

at once in the pay of Beverley, Sir Lucius, Lydia, 
Mrs. Malaprop, and Bob Acres, another of Miss 
Languish's lovers, a silly fellow whom she despised 
as much as she loved Beverley. 

The above named are but a portion of the party 
who, as we have said, had assembled at Bath. 
One of the others was Captain AbHolute, who had 
come hither under his own name, but with the 
hope of meeting Miss Lydia in his assumed 
character of Beverley. Another was his father, 
Sir Anthony, a high-tempered old gentleman, who 
knew nothing of his son's presence or of his 
secret love affair, and was likely to make trouble 
when he should find out what was going on. 
Two others were Julia, Lydia's confidential friend, 
and her lover, Mr. Faulkland, a young gentleman 
of such jealous aff'eciion that he made himself 
miserable through the constant fear that his love 
was not fully returned. 

Sir Anthony Absolute had a special purpose 
in coming to Bath. He strongly desired to have 
his son marry Miss Languish, and wished to treat 
with Mrs. Malaprop to that end. This proposal he 
found quite agreeable to that lady, for she was 
afraid of some ill-i'esult from her niece's romantic 
fancy, being especially troubled by the discovery 
of Lydia's penchant for Beverley. 

" I will write for the boy directly," said Sir 
Anthony. " He knows not a syllable of this yet, 
though I have for some time had the proposal in 
my head." 



THE RIVALS. 189 

Little did the good knight imagine that his 
graceless son was already secretly paying his 
addresses to the romantic young lady. 

" We have never seen j^our son, Sir Anthony," 
said Mrs. Malaprop ; " but I hope there will be no 
objection on his side." 

" Objection ! let him object if he dare !" cried 
Sir Anthony, angry at the very thought. " No, 
no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least 
demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process 
was always very simple, in his younger days. It 
was 'Jack, do this'; if he demurred, I knocked 
him down, and if he grumbled at that, I sent him 
out of the room." 

" Ay, the properest way, on my conscience," 
said Mrs. Malaprop. " ISTothing is so conciliating 
to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, 
I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and pre- 
pare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; 
and I hope you will represent her to the captain 
as an object not altogether illegible." 

" Take my advice ; keep a tight hand : if she 
rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key; 
and if you were just to let the servants forget to 
bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't 
conceive how she'd come about." 

" Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her 
from under my intuition." 

Sir Anthony was not long in learning that his 
hopeful son had not waited to be summoned to 
Bath. He accidentally met J'ag, the captain's ser- 



190 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

vant, and on asking him what brought him there, 
was told that his master had come there to re- 
cruit, though he did not say whether for men, 
money, or health. 

Fag hastened to warn his master of what had 
happened, that he might know what story to tell 
if he should meet his father. The young man's 
purpose in coming to Bath had been to put an 
end to the deception he had practised, and tell 
Lydia his real name and rank, but he felt that 
this must be done very cautiously ; for he was 
convinced that though she would be glad to elope 
with him as Ensign Beverley, it was doubtful if 
she would accept him with her aunt's consent, a 
humdrum wedding, and the prospect of a for- 
tune on his side. Marriage never took place in 
that way in her favorite novels, and she was 
likely to object decidedly to an unromantic 
matrimony. 

Captain Beverley confided this critical state of 
his affairs to his friend Faulkland, whom he found 
in a fever of apprehension from a less reasonable 
cause. He was sorely troubled lest anxiety about 
his absence, or the inclemency of the weather, 
might have overcome his Julia's health. 

" So, then, if you were convinced that Julia 
were well and in spirits, you would be entirely 
content?" asked Captain Absolute. 

" I should be happy beyond measure," replied 
Faulkland. 

" Then, to euro you^ anxiety at once, I may tell 



THE RIVALS. 191 

you that Miss Melville is in perfect health, and is 
at this moment in Bath." 

" Nay, Jack, don't trifle with me." 

" She has ai^rived here with ray father within 
this hour." 

" My dear Jack ! now, nothing on this earth 
can give me a moment's uneasiness." 

The confident lover did not know himself, as 
was soon to be shown. For Bob Acres called at 
this point in their conversation, and, as this whim- 
sical fellow lived near Miss Melville, Faulkland 
grew at once eager to learn from him how his 
lady love had borne his absence. After some in- 
troductory conversation, he remarked, — 

"I have not seen Miss Melville yet; I hope she 
enjoyed full health and spirits in Devonshire." 

"Never knew her better in my life, sir," an- 
swered Acres ;" never better. Odds blushes and 
blooms! She has been as healthy as the German 
Spa." 

" Indeed ! I did hear she had been a little in- 
disposed," 

" False, false, sir ; only said to vex you : quite 
the reverse, I assure you." 

" There, Jack," said Faulkland, discontentedly, 
" and I had almost fretted myself ill. Isn't there 
something unkind in this violent, robust, unfeel- 
ing health ?" 

" Oh, to be sure, it was very unkind of her to 
be well in your absence," answered Jack. 

"But, Mr. Acres," resumed the lover, "she 



192 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

has been merry and gay, I suppose ? Always in 
spirits, hey?" 

" Meny, odds crickets ! She has been the belle 
and spirit of the company wherever she has been. 
Then she is so accomplished, — so sweet a voice I 
Odds minions and crotchets, how she did chirrup 
at Mrs. Piano's concert!" 

"Oh, the innate levity of woman !" groaned 
Faulkland. "Do you remember what songs Miss 
Melville sung?" 

" Not I, indeed." 

" Some pretty, melancholy, purling-stream airs 
I wari'ant," said Captain Absolute. " Did she 
sing, When absent from my souVs delight, or Go, 
gentle gales f 

"Oh no! nothing like that. Odds! now I 
recollect one of them, — 3Iy heart's my own, my will 
is free. And then her dancing " 

" Ah, yes ! you were about to praise Miss Mel- 
ville's manner of dancing a minuet, eh?" queried 
Faulkland. 

"1^0, what I was going to speak of was her 
country-dancing. Odds swimming! she has such 
an air with her." 

"There, there, I told 3'ou so!" cried Faulkland, 
in a fever of jealous uneasiness. "She thrives in 
my absence. Her whole feelings have been in 
opposition with mine. I have been anxious, silent, 
pensive, sedentary. She has been all health, spirit, 
laugh, song, dance. Fool, fool, that I am, to fix 
all my happiness on such a trifler! Tell me, 



THE RIVALS. 193 

Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the com- 
pany ?" 

" No, indeed, you have not." 

" Have I been full of wit and humor ?" 

" No, faith, to do you justice, you have been 
confoundedly stupid." 

" Excuse me, Jack, I must leave. I own, I am 
somewhat flurried." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor fellow ! Five minutes ago 
nothing on earth could give you a moment's un- 
easiness. But stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. 
Acres for his good news." 

"Confound his news!" exclaimed the angry 
lover, and he rushed from the room in a rage. 

While Captain Absolute was thus amusing him- 
self with the peevish love-folly of his friend, 
events were preparing which were destined to 
throw him into as deep a real trouble as the 
imaginary one into which Bob Acres's story had 
plunged Faulkland. 

For hardly had his visitors left him than his 
father entered, full of his mati'imonial scheme. 
He began in an indirect fashion, by telling his 
dear Jack that he considered the income allowed 
him as too small for a lad of his spirit, and that 
he had resolved to make him master of a large 
estate in a few weeks. 

This auspicious opening filled the young man 
with joy; but this was turned to consternation 
when, in the midst of his thanks, his father in- 
formed him that a wife accompanied the gift. 
Vol. II.— I n 17 



194 TALES FEOM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"Why, what difference does that make?" de- 
manded Sir Anthony, on his son's hasty exclama- 
tion of dissent. " Odds life, sir ! if you have the 
estate you must take it with the live stock on 
it." 

" If my happiness is to be the price," answered 
Jack, " I must beg leave to decline the purchase. 
Pray, sir, who is the lady ?" 

" What's that to j^ou, sir ?" cried his father, 
angrily. " Come, give me your promise to love 
and to marry her directly." 

" You must excuse me, sir," was Jack's resolute 
reply, " if I tell you, once for all, that in this point 
I cannot obey you." 

" Hark'ee, Jack," cried his father, with a flushed 
face, "I have heard you with patience; I have 
been cool, — quite cool ; but take care, — you know 
I am compliance itself, — when I am not thwarted ; 
no one more easily led, — when I have my own 
way, — but don't put me in a passion." 

" Nay, sir, but hear me." 

" I won't hear a word, — not a word ! So give 
me your promise by a nod, you undutiful dog." 

" What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness !" 

" Zounds, sirrah !" cried Sir Anthony, breaking 
into a violent rage, " the lady shall be as ugly as 
I choose ; she shall have a hump on each shoulder; 
she shall be as crooked as the crescent; she shall 
have the skin of a mummj'-, and the beard of a 
Jew, — she shall be all this, sirrah! — yet I will 



THE RIVALS. 195 

make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to 
write sonnets on her beauty," 

Sir Anthony, in short, fretted himself into such 
a fury that he would not listen to a word that his 
son could say. and when Jack sought, in very nild 
language, to defend himself, broke out with. - 

" So, you will fly out ! Can't you be cool, like 
me ? What the devil good can passion do ? You 
rely on the mildness of my temper, — you do, you 
dog ! You play upon the meekness of my dispo- 
sition ! But take care, — the patience of a saint 
ma}' be overcome at last. Mark me, sirrah, 1 
give you six hours and a half to consider of this ; 
then, if you don't agree, without condition to do 
everything on earth that I choose, don't dare to 
breathe the same air or use the same light with 
me, but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own. 
I'll strip you of your commission ! I'll disown 
you ! I'll disinherit you ! and, damn me, if I ever 
call 3' ou Jack again !" 

And in a towering rage the old gentleman 
stamped from the room and down the stairs, 
fiercely thumping the balusters all the way, while 
at the bottom he gave Pag a blow on the head 
with his cane and kicked the cook's dog into the 
area, as some relief to his overcharged feelings. 

That Captain Absolute found himself in an 
awkward dilemma need not be said. Fortunately, 
he was soon to be relieved from it, through the 
aid of his servant Fag, and Lucy, the bribe-taking 
maid. Lucy was abroad on an errand, from Mrs. 



196 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Malaprop, bearing to Sir Lucius a note which 
ran as follows, and which the worthy Irishman 
read with some perplexity : 

"Sir, — There is often a sudden incentive im- 
pulse in love that has a greater induction than 
years of domestic combination ; such was the 
commotion I felt at the first superfluous view of 
Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Female punctuation for- 
bids me to say more ; yet let me add, that it will 
give mc joy infallible to find Sir Lucius worthy 
the last criterion of my aff'ections. Delia." 

" Upon my conscience, Lucy, your lady is a 
great mistress of language," exclaimed Sir Lucius. 
" Faith, she's the queen of the dictionary, for the 
devil a word dare refuse coming at her call, though 
one would think it was quite out of bearing." 

After the Irish lover had departed, Lucy met 
Fag, whom she knew only as Beverley's servant, 
and told him, as a most valuable piece of news, 
that there was a worse rival than Bob Acres in 
the field, for Sir Anthony Absolute had proposed 
his son. Captain Absolute, as a suitor for Miss 
Languish's hand. These tidings, as may be im- 
agined, failed to throw Fag into the consternation 
which Lucy had expected ; and when, soon after- 
wards, he repeated the news to the downcast cap- 
tain, it revived him as if all his veins had been 
filled with champagne. So his father wanted him 
to marry the very girl he was plotting to run 
away with ! Here was information, indeed ! The 
glad lover resolved to withdraw all his objections 



THE RIVALS. 197 

instantly, and to overcome his father's rage by a 
full consent to the projected marriage. 

The opportunity to put his decision into effect 
soon came, for shortly after hearing Fag's wel- 
come story he encountered his father. The old 
gentleman, who was still in a state of fury, vowed 
he would have nothing more to do with the 
rebel, and could hardly be brought to listen to his 
profession of penitence. But when the captain 
promised to yield to him in everything, the 
wind of his temper sank as suddenly as it had 
risen. 

" Why, now you talk sense," he declared. *' I 
never heard anything more reasonable in my life. 
Confound me! you shall be Jack again, and I 
will inform you who the lady really is. Nothing 
but your passion and violence prevented my tell- 
ing you at first. What think you of Miss Lydia 
Languish ?" 

" Languish ! What, the Languishes of Worces- 
tershire?" 

" Worcestershire ! no, sir. Lid you never meet 
Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish ?" 

" Malaprop ! Languish ! Stay, I think I do 
recollect something. Languish ! Languish ! She 
squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl?" 

" Squints ! A red-haired girl I Zounds ! no." 

"Then I must have forgot, — it can't be the 
same person." 

" Jack, Jack, what think you of blooming, love- 
breathing seventeen ?" 

17* 



198 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

"As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. If I 
can please you in the matter it is all I desire." 

" iiay, but. Jack, such eyes ! such blushing 
cheeks! such lovely smiling lips! such " 

" And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or the 
aunt?" 

This exasperating question almost threw Sir 
Anthony into a rage again. 

" Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy !" he 
broke out, " I despise you ! The aunt, indeed I 
Odds life ! when I ran away with your mother I 
would not have touched anything old or ugly to 
gain an empire." 

" Not to please your father, sir ?" 

" To please my father ! zounds ! not to please 

Oh, my father — odds so ! — yes, yes ; if 

my father indeed had desired, — that's quite 
another matter. But he wasn't the indulgent 
father that I am, Jack." 

" I dare say, not, sir." 

Jack cari'ied his penitential professions some- 
what too far, as it proved, for his father began 
to suspect him of hypocrisy, and at length broke 
out with, — 

" Come along with me ; you shall visit the lady 
directly ; and I'll never forgive you if you don't 
come back stark mad with rapture and impa- 
tience. If you don't, egad, I'll marry the girl 
myself!" 

" In that case, sir, I suppose you would have 
me marry the aunt. Or if you should change 



THE RIVALS. 199 

your mind, and take the old lady, — it is all the 
same to me, — I'll marry the niece." 

This was more than Sir Anthony could stand. 
He flung himself angrily from the room, leaving 
Jack with a sly smile on the leeward side of his 
face. But in a few minutes the old gentleman 
returned in a more peaceable temper, and with a 
note of introduction to Mrs. Malaprop, which he 
commanded his son to deliver immediately. This 
Jack dutifully obeyed, though not without many 
misgivings, for he feared the effect on Lydia's 
romantic fancy when she should discover that 
Beverley and Captain Absolute were one and the 
same. 

Jack's interview with Mrs. Malaprop was not 
without its elements of awkwardness, for she in- 
formed him that the girl had fixed her affections 
on a beggarly ensign, and that, in spite of her 
positive "conjunctions," the fellow "persisted 
from" correspondence with her. She had just 
"interceded" another letter from him, she de- 
clared, which had given her the " hydrostatics" 
to such a desrree. 

Jack was not surprised at her " hydrostatics" 
on reading the letter, for it spoke of Mrs. Mala- 
prop as an " old weather-beaten she-dragon," with 
other equally uncomplimentary epithets. Should 
the old lady discover that he had written this 
letter himself his hopes might be seriously inter- 
fered with, and he felt it necessary to play his 
cards with all the skill at his command. 



200 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

It would bo a happy idea, he told her, since the 
girl was so infatuated with Beverley, to let them 
plan an elopement ; he would come in just at the 
nick of time, lay the fellow by the heels, and 
fairly contrive to carry her off in his stead. This 
scheme seemed to the good lady an excellent one, 
and she agreed to it on the spot. Then, laughing 
heartily at the idea of the lovers eluding her 
vigilance, she went out to send Lydia to her 
suitor. 

Lydia's coming was a very unwilling one. She 
wanted nothing to do with this new suitor, and 
did not see why she should be pestered with hate- 
ful addresses. What, therefore, was her joyful 
surprise, when she at length entered the room, to 
recognize in the unwelcome visitor her dear Bev- 
erley ! The lover, however, had his presence to 
explain, and did so by telling her that he had 
passed himself off upon Mrs. Malaprop as Captain 
Absolute, a piece of invented information which 
filled the girl with delight. 

Unluckily, in the midst of their transports of 
affection, Mrs. Malaprop made her appearance at 
the door, where she overheard a part of their 
conversation. All would have been now in danger, 
but that she misunderstood the meaning of their 
words, and revealed her presence before they 
were too deeply committed. 

" Let her choice be Captain Absolute," said 
Lydia, " but Beverley is mine." 

" Oh, you vixen ! I have overheard you," cried 



THE RIVALS. 201 

Mrs. Malaprop, coming forward. " My dear cap- 
tain, I know not how to apologize for her shock- 
ing rudeness." 

The lover, who had started violently on hear- 
ing the good lady's voice, perceived by her words 
that his secret was still safe, and quietly re- 
marked, — 

" 1 have hopes, madam, that time will bring the 
young lady " 

" Oh, there's nothing to be hoped for from her," 
interrupted Mrs. Malaprop, pettishly. " She's as 
headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the 
Nile." 

"Kay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the 
young lady's speech. She is very welcome to 
profess love for Beverley, — it does not hurt me in 
the least, I assure you." 

" You are too amiably patient, captain. Come 
with me, miss ; but take a graceful leave of the 
gentleman." 

" May every blessing wait on ray Beverley," 
began Lydia, " my loved Bev " 

"Hussy! come along — come along," exclaimed 
the angry aunt, hurrying her out, the captain 
lovingly kissing his hand to her as she disap- 
peared. 

Meanwhile new complications were arising for 
the gallant captain, as a consequence of his double 
character. Before long, indeed, he had two duels 
on his hand, one as Beverley and the other as 
Captain Absolute. 



202 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Bob Acres, who had followed Lydia to Bath to 
continue his suit, had been summarily dismissed, 
and fancied that he was thrown aside in favor of 
Beverley, who he had heard was in Bath. He 
complained of this affront to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, 
who assured him that he had been very shabbily 
treated, and that his wounded honor could only 
be healed by shedding the blood of his rival. 

" But he has given me no provocation," de- 
clared Bob. " Faith, I never saw the man in my 
life." 

"That's no argument at all," answered Sir 
Lucius. " He has the less right, then, to take the 
liberty to fall in love with the same woman as 
yourself." 

" Gad, that's true !" exclaimed Bob, filled with 
sudden valor. " I grow full of anger. Sir Lucius. 
I fire apace. Odds hilts and blades, I find a man 
may have a deal of valor in him, and not know 
It ! But couldn't I contrive to have a little right 
on my side?" 

" What the devil signifies right, when your honor 
is concerned ? Do you think Achilles, or my little 
Alexander the Great, ever inquired where the 
right lay ?" 

" Odds flints, paws, and triggers ! I'll challenge 
him directly." 

" Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss 
Hall here, I could show you a glorious range of 
ancestry in the O'Trigger line, — every one of 
whom had killed his manl" 



THE RIVALS. '] 203 

" i have had ancestors, too !" cried Bob, " every 
man of 'em colonel or captain in the militia. 
Odds balls and barrels! Say no more, — I'm 
braced for it. The thunder of your words has 
soured the milk of human kindness in my breast. 
' Zounds !' as the man in the play says, ' I could 
do such deeds ' " 

" Come, come, there must be no passion in the 
case. These things should always be done civilly." 

" I must be in a passion. Sir Lucius, — I must be 
in a rage. Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, 
if 3^ou love me. Come, here's pen and paper. I 
■would the ink were red. How shall I begin ?" 

"Decently, and like a Christian. Begin 
' Sir ' " 

" That's too civil by half" 

" ' To prevent the confusion that might arise 
from our both addressing the same lady, I shall 
expect the honor of your company ' " 

" Zounds !" exclaimed Bob ; " I'm not asking him 
to dinner." 

" ' To settle our pretensions ' " 

"Well?" 

" Let me see, — ' in King's Mead-fields.' " 

" So that's done." 

"Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time," 
said Sir Lucius. " Take ray advice and decide it 
this evening if you can ; then let the worst come 
of it, 'twill be off your mind to-morrow." 

" Very true." 

" I would do myself the honor to carry your 



204 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

message ; but, to tell you a secret, I believe I shall 
have just such another affair on my own hands. 
There is a gay captain here who put a jest on me 
lately, at the expense of my country, and I only 
want to fall in with the gentleman to call him 
out." 

" By my valor, I should like to see you fight 
first! Odds life! I should like to see you kill 
him, if it was only to get a little lesson." 

" I shall be very proud of instructing you. 
But for the present am obliged to bid you good 
day," and the gallant Sir Lucius took himself off, 
leaving Bob to the difficult task of keeping 
alive his courage, and to the necessary duty of 
getting some friend to deliver his challenge. For 
this warlike task he settled on Captain Absolute, 

" You know something of this fellow," declared 
Bob, on meeting the captain. " I want you to 
find him out for me, and give him this mortal 
defiance." 

" Trust me to see that he gets it," replied Jack, 
manafrinir to conceal his laughter at this idea of 
conveying a challenge to himself 

" You couldn't be my second, could you, Jack ?" 

" Why no, Bob ; there are reasons " 

" Well, well, I must ask Sir Lucius. But, Jack, 
if Beverley should ask you what kind of a man 
your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a devil of a 
fellow. Will you, Jack ?" 

" To be sure I shall. I'll say you are a deter- 
mined dog, hey, Bob I" 



THE RIVALS. 205 

" Ay, do. Tell him I generally kill a man a 
week, will you. Jack ?" 

" I will. I'll say you are called in the country, 
Fighting Bob." 

" True, true ; and, Jack, you may add that you 
never saw me in such a rage before, — a devouring 
rage." 

" I will, I will." 

" Egad, I hope that may frighten him so that 
he won't come. It is all to prevent mischief, Jack. 
I don't want to take his life, if I can clear my 
honor." 

This challenge was soon followed by the threat- 
ened one from Sir Lucius O'Triffo-er, who was not 
the man to let an insult to his native island pass 
unrevenged. Luckily for the Irishman's purpose, 
he met with Jack when he was in a very ill- 
humor from something which had just happened, 
and was more ready to fight than to eat. He 
accepted the challenge of Sir Lucius, therefore, 
with few words, and made the hour and the place 
the same that had been appointed for Bob Acres's 
fight with Beverley. 

It is necessary now to go back and relate the 
cause of Jack's ill-humor. He had abundant 
reason to be ruflled in temper, for his love affair 
had got into a very awkward snarl. In fact. Sir 
Anthony had insisted on accompanying him on a 
visit to Mrs. Malaprop and Lydia, and there, in 
spite of all that the cunning lover could do to 
prevent an exjjosure, the truth of his deception 

18 



206 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

came out. Lydia, in short, had refused so strongly 
to accept him as Captain Absolute, and so earn- 
estly insisted that he was her Beverley, that he 
was left no escape but to confess the truth, and 
throw himself on her mercy. 

His confession was differently received by the 
three parties present. Lydia fell into a tearful 
pet at the idea that there would be no elopement 
after all. Mrs. Malaprop recalled, with angry 
countenance, Beverley's epithet of " a weather- 
beaten she-dragon." As for Sir Anthony, he 
broke out heartily with, — 

" Ui^on my soul, Jack, you are a very impudent 
fellow! You have made a fool of your father, 
you dog! So this was your 'penitence,' your 
'duty and obedience'! What, 'the Languishes 
of Worcestershire,' hey? What, 'she squints, 
don't she ? — a little red-haired girl' ! hej^ ? Why, 
you hypocritical young rascal ! I wonder you 
ain't ashamed to hold up your head ! Well, well, 
I am glad, at any rate, you are not the dull, in- 
sensible varlet you pretended to be." 

But Jack did not find Miss Lydia so forgiving 
as his father and her aunt proved to be. Left 
alone with the deceived young lady, he found her 
sullen and freezing. The idea that she was ex- 
pected to marry Avith the full consent of her 
friends, a license, settlements, all the everj'-day 
commonplaces of matrimony, so overturned her 
ideals that she repulsed him in peevish discon- 
tent, and in the end broke into a passion and 



THE RIVALS. 207 

flung his picture at him, vowing that she never 
wished to see his treacherous face again. The 
interview ended in a hot quarrel, in which 
Lydia declared that she renounced the counter- 
feit Beverley forever, and which left her lover 
in the humor to cut the throats of ten fighting 
Irishmen. 

But we must for the moment return to Faulk- 
land, whose love affair we left in a very unsatis- 
factory condition. He was not long in making 
it still more unsatisfactory; in an interview 
with Julia, he blamed her bitterly for her high 
spirits in Devonshire, and was generally so un- 
reasonable as to drive her from the room in tears. 
In a second interview he tried a plan he had 
devised to test her love ; professing to have com- 
mitted an act that would oblige him to fly in 
haste from England, and calling on her for sym- 
pathy and love. Julia, filled with grief and alarm, 
at once consented to fly with him ; upon which 
Faulkland, filled with joy at this proof of her love, 
acknowledged that he had deceived her, and 
begged her pardon for thus testing her love. His 
confession had a different effect than he antici- 
pated. The poor woman felt that her feelings 
had been outraged, and told him that his test 
of love was an insult, that she could never be 
happy with such an exacting lover, and that she 
would never be his, — he had broken the last link 
of her affection. With these words she reso- 
lutely retired, leaving Faulkland in as awkward 



208 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

a situation and as depressed a mood as was 
Captain Absolute, though from a very different 
cause. 

Julia, on leaving her lover, sought her friend 
and confidante Lydia, her heart full of pain, her 
eyes still wet with tears. She found her romantic 
friend plunged into as great a trouble as herself. 
To think that her dear Beverley should turn out 
to be this prosily eligible Captain Absolute, and 
that dull common sense was to preside over her 
matrimonial affair ! 

" Is it not provoking," she exclaimed, " when I 
thought we were coming to the prettiest distress 
imaginable, to find myself made a mere Smithfield 
bargain of at last ? I had projected one of the 
most sentimental elopements ! so becoming a dis- 
guise ! so amiable a ladder of ropes ! Conscious 
moon — four horses — Scotch parson — with such 
surprise to Mrs. Malaprop — and such paragraphs 
in the newspaper! Oh, I shall die with disap- 
pointment!" 

" I don't wonder at it," answered Julia. 

" Now, — sad reverse ! — what have I to expect, 
but, after a deal of flimsy preparation with a 
bishop's license, and my aunt's blessing, to go 
simpering up to the altar; or perhaps be cried 
three times in a country church, and have an 
unmannerly fat clerk ask the consent of every 
butcher in the parish to join John Absolute and 
I-iydia Languish, spinster? Oh, that I should 
live to hear myself called spinster!" 



THE RIVALS. 209 

" Melancholy, indeed !" sympathized Julia, while 
Lydia walked the floor in a pet of temper. 

Luckily for her. her love affair was not to be 
too dismally commonplace. Her lover was about 
to fight a duel for the privilege of her hand, and 
tidings of this alarming event were even now on 
their way to her. 

Bob Acres had told the story of his challenge 
to his servant David, who was, if possible, a more 
arrant coward than himself; and David, who 
could not be made to see how his master would be 
the better off to have his honor alive and himself 
dead, lost no time in giving the alarm. 

Failing to find Sir Anthony, he ran in haste to 
Mrs. Malaprop's, and told his tale of battles and 
bloodshed to that lady and to Tag, the captain's 
servant, whom he found there. Mrs. Malaprop, 
alarmed at the news, burst, in her turn, into the 
room where Julia and Lydia were exchanging 
confidences, and cried out, —  

" So ! so ! here's fine work ! here's fine suicide, 
paracide, and simulation going on in the fields ! 
and Sir Anthony not to be found to prevent the 
antistrophe !" 

" For heaven's sake, madam, what is the mean- 
ing of this ?" asked Julia. 

"Dear aunt, do tell us what is the matter?" 
demanded Lydia. 

"Why, murder's the matter! slaughter's the 
matter ! killing's the matter ! But this gentleman 
can tell you the perpendiculars." 

Vol. II.— o 18* 



210 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

" Who, sir, — who are engaged in this ?" asked 
Lydia. 

" Faith, ma'am," answered Tag, " one is a young 
gentleman whom I should be sorry anything was 
to happen to, — a very pretty behaved gentleman." 

"But who — who — who?" cried Lydia, impa- 
tiently. 

" My master, ma'am." 

" Heavens ! What, Captain Absolute ?" 

" Who is there beside Captain Absolute ?" de- 
manded Julia. 

" My poor master," said David. " My master, 
Mr. Acres. Then comes Squire Faulkland." 

" Oh, madam," exclaimed Julia, " let us instantly 
endeavor to prevent mischief!" 

" No, no," said Mrs. Malaprop. " That would 
be very inelegant in us ; we should onl}^ partici- 
pate things." 

" Ah, do save a few lives !" pleaded David. 
" They are desperately given, believe me. Above 
all, there is that blood-thirsty Philistine, Sir Lu- 
cius O'Trigger." 

"Sir Lucius O'Trigger!" exclaimed Mrs. Mala- 
prop. "Oh, mercy! have they drawn poor, little, 
dear Sir Lucius into the scrape ? Why, how you 
stand, girl ! You have no more feeling than one 
of the Derbyshire petrifactions." 

" What are we to do?" asked Lydia. 

" Why, fly with the utmost felicity, to prevent 
mischief. Here, friend, can you show us the 
place ?" 



THE RIVALS. 211 

" If you please, ma'am, I will conduct you," 
said Tag. " David, do you look for Sir An- 
thony." 

" Come, girls, this gentleman will exhort us," 
said Mrs. Malaprop. " Come, sir, you're our 
envoy, — lead the way, and we'll precede." 

Tag hastened to obey orders, and in a few min- 
utes the frightened ladies were on their way to 
the field of battle. 

About the same time Sir Anthony met his son 
in the streets on his way to the place of combat. 
Jack was armed for the duel, and endeavored to 
conceal his sword under his cloak, but his father 
discovered it, and demanded to know what he 
was up to now. 

" Sir, I'll explain," answered Jack. " You know, 
sir, Lydia is romantic, devilish romantic, and 
very absurd. ISTow I intend, if she refuses to 
forgive me, to unsheathe this sword and swear 
to fall upon its point and die at her feet." 

" Fall upon a fiddlestick's end !" growled Sir 
Anthony. " Why, it is the very thing that would 
please her. Get along, you fool !" 

This Jack was very ready to do. But hardly 
had be disappeared before David appeared, white 
with terror, and revealed the true secret of the 
sword. Swearing like a trooper at the trick 
of his worthy son. Sir Anthony bade David lead 
him to the field, — whither the three ladies were 
just then hurrying at all speed. 

Of the various combatants, Sir Lucius and Bob 



212 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

Acres were the first to reach the field of battle. 
They were provided with pistols. 

" Tell mc, Mr. Acres," said Sir Lucius, " in case 
of an accident, is there any little commission I 
could execute for you?" 

" I — I don't understand," declared Bob, trem- 
bling like a leaf. 

" Why, there's no being shot at without a little 
risk. Suppose now an unlucky bullet should 
carry a quietus with it, would you choose to be 
pickled and sent home ? Or would it be the same 
to you to lie here in the Abbey? I'm told there 
is very snug lying in the Abbey." 

" Pickled ! Snug lying in the Abbey ! Don't 
talk so, Sir Lucius." 

" But there's nothing like being prepared. Pray, 
now, how will you receive the gentleman's fire ?" 

" Odd ! ril make myself small enough ; I'll 
stand edgeways." 

" You're quite out there, Mr. Acres. If the 
bullet misses a vital part of your right side, it 
will be very hard if it don't succeed on the left. 
But if you present your full front, a ball or two 
may pass clean through your body and never do 
any harm at all." 

"A ball or two clean through me!" cried Bob, 
shaking with terror. 

" And then it's the genteelist attitude." 

" Look you, Sir Lucius ; I'd as lieve be shot in 
an awkward posture as a genteel one ; so, by my 
valor, I will stand edgeways." 



THE RIVALS. 213 

" Sure, they don't mean to disappoint us ?" said 
Sir Lucius, looking at his watch. "No, faith, I 
think I see them coming. Who are those yonder 
getting over the stile ?" 

" Well, — let them come, — hey. Sir Lucius ! we- 
we-we-we — won't run." 

" Eun ?" 

" No — I say — we won't run." 

"What the devil's the matter with you?" ex- 
claimed the bold second, looking angrily at his 
trembling principal. 

" Nothing — nothing, ray dear friend, — but I — 
I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did." 

" Well, here they're coming." 

" Sir Lucius, if I wasn't with you, I should al- 
most think I was afraid. If my valor should 
leave me, — valor will come and go." 

" Then, pray, keep it fast while you have it." 

" Sir Lucius, I doubt it is going, — yes, my valor 
is certainly going, — it is sneaking off, — I feel it 
oozing out, as it were, at the palms of my hands." 

" Tour honor, sir, — your honor. Here they are." 

Fortunately for Bob's valor, no Beverley ap- 
peared. But after some conversation Captain 
Absolute acknowledged that he was Beverley, and 
as such was quite willing to give Mi*. Acres satis- 
faction. But the courageous Bob quite declined 
to quari'el with his dear friend Jack Absolute. 

*' Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres," declared 
Sir Lucius, "your valor has oozed away with a 
vengeance." 



214 TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS. 

'•Not in the least," retorted Bob. " I'll be your 
second with all my heart, and if you should get 
a quietus, I'll get you snug lying in the Abbey 
here ; or pickle you and send you over to Blun- 
derbuss Hall, or anything of the kind, with the 
greatest pleasure." 

" Sir Lucius, you can't have a better second 
than my friend Acres," said Captain Absolute. 
" He is a most determined dog, — called in the coun- 
try, Fighting Bob. He generally kills a man a 
week. Don't you, Bob ?" 

" Ay, — at home," answered Bob. 

One duel still remained, — that between Sir 
Lucius and Captain Absolute ; but before it could 
be fought the duellists were interrupted by Sir 
Anthony and the three ladies, one of them in a 
rage, the others overcome with terror. 

" Put up, Jack, put up, or I shall be in a frenzy I" 
exclaimed Sir Anthony. " How came you in a 
duel, sir?" 

" Faith, sir, that gentleman can tell you better 
than I," answered his son. " He called me out, 
without explaining his reasons." 

" Gad, sir, how came you to call my son out 
without explaining your reasons ?" 

"Your son, sir, insulted me in a manner which 
my honor could not brook," replied Sir Lucius. 

" Zounds, Jack, how durst you insult the gen- 
tleman in a manner which his honor could not 
brook ?" 

" Come, come, let's have no honor before ladies," 



THE RIVALS. 215 

exclaimed Mrs. Malaprop. " Captain Absolute, 
how could you intimidate us so ? Here's Lydia 
has been terrified to death for you." 

" For fear I should be killed, or escape, ma'am ?" 

" Nay, no delusions to the past. Lydia is con- 
vinced. Speak, child." 

There followed a series of explanations, which 
proved quite to the satisfaction of all parties con- 
cerned except Sir Lucius ; who, on discovering 
that his Delia was not the fair Julia, but her aunt, 
Mrs. Malaprop, felt himself quickly cured of his 
romantic passion. 

As for Lydia, her fright at the danger of her 
lover, and satisfaction that he was ready to fight 
a duel on her account, made her ready to forgive 
the counterfeit Beverley, and accept him without 
an elopement, while Julia proved as kind to her 
exacting lover. All the diflScuIties which had 
surrounded the two pairs of lovers were, there- 
fore, happily removed, Bob Acres and Sir Lucius 
gallantly promising to dance at their weddings, 
while happiness, in the form of Hymen, spread 
its wings over the reconciled Eivals. 



END OP VOL. II. 



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